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THE 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD: 

4 



OUVm GOLDSMITH M. BL 



WITH 

tHE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, 
BY DR. JOHNSON. 



Wlalrtlptifa: 

PUBLISHED BY J. LOCKEl^,, 

No. 8 South Front Street. 


1830 . 


'•Gf 5& 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


V 


Sc. 




There are a hundred faults in this things end 
hundred things might be said to prove them I 

ties ; but it is needless. A book may be amusing ■ j 
with numerous errors, or it may be very dull witl.- - 
out a single absurdity. The hero of ihL piece 
unites in himself the three greatest characters upon 
earth ; he is a priest, a husbandman, and a father 
of a family : he is drawn as ready to teach, and 
ready to obey: as simple in affluence, and majestic 
in adversity. In this age of opulence and refine- 
ment, who can such a character please ? Such as 
are fond of high life will turn with disdain from the 
simplicity of his country fire-side ; such as mistake 
ribaldry for humour will find no wit in his harmless 
conversation ; and such as have been taught to de 
ride religion will laugh at one whose chief stores ot 
comfort are drawn from futurity. 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH 






MEMOIRS 


or 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M* B. 


* The life of a scholar,’ Dr. Goldsmith has remark 
ed, ‘ seldom abounds with adventure ; his fame is ac- 
quired in solitude, and the historian, who only views 
him at a distance, must be content with a dry detail 
of actions by which he is scarce distinguished from 
the rest of mankind ; but we are fond of talking of 
those who have given us pleasure, not that we have 
any thing important to say, but because the subject 
is pleasing.* 

Oliver Goldsmith, son of the Reverend Charles 
Goldsmith, was born at Elphin, in the county of 
Roscommon, in Ireland, in the year 1729. His 
father had four sons, of whom Oliver was the third. 
After being well instructed in the classics, at the 
school of Mr, Hughes, he was admitted a sizer in 
Trinity College, Dublin, on the 11th of June, 1744. 
While he resided there, he exhibited no specimens 
of that genius which, in maturer years, raised his 
character so high. On the 20th of February, 1749 
O. S. (two years after the regular time) he obtainedl 
the degree of Bachelor of Arts. Soon after he 
turned his thoughts to the profession of physic ; and 
having attended some courses of anatomy in Dublin, 
proceeded to Edinburgh, in the year 1751, where he 
studied the several branches of medicine under the 


THE LIFE OF 


different professors in that university. His bene- 
ficent disposition soon involved him in iinexpected 
difficulties ; and he was obliged precipitately to leave 
Scotland, in consequence of having engaged him- 
self to pay a considerable sum of money for a fellow- 
student. 

The beginning of the year 1754, he arrived at 
Sunderland, near Newcastle, where he was arrested 
at the suit of one Barclay, a tailor, in Edinburgh, 
to whom he had given security for his friend. By 
the good offices of Laughlin Maclane, Esq. and Dr, 
Sleigh, who were then in the college, he was soon 
delivered out of the hands of the bailiff, and took 
his passage on board a Dutch ship to Rotterdam ; 
where, after a short stay, he proceeded to Brussels. 
He then visited great part of Flanders ; and- after 
passing some time at Strasbourg and Louvain, 
vvliere he obtained a degree of Bachelor in Physic, 
he accompanied an English gentleman to Geneva. 

It is undoubtedly a fact, that this ingenious, unfor- 
tunate man made most of hia tour on foot. He 
had left England with very little money ; and being 
of a philosophic turn, and at that time possessing a 
body capable of sustaining every fatigue, and a heart 
not easily terrified by danger, he became an enthusi- 
ast to the design he had formed of seeing the man- 
ners of distant countries. He had some knowledge 
of the French language, and of music ; he played 
tolerably well on the German flute, which from an 
amusement, sometimes bpcame the means of sub- 
sistence. His learning procured him an hospitable 
reception at most of the »‘«‘li<gious houses he visited ; 


OR. GOLDSMITH. 


V 


and his music made him weleome to tlie peasants 
ot* Flanders and Germany. 

On his arrival at Geneva, he was recommended 
as a proper person for a travelling tutor to a young 
man, who had been unexpectedly left a consider- 
able sum by his uncle Mr. S***. This youth, who 
was articled to an attorney, on receipt of his for- 
tune, determined to see the world. 

During Goldsmith’s continuance in Switzerlandj 
he sent the first sketch of his delightful epistle, 
called The Traveller^ to his brother Henry, a. 
clergyman in Ireland ; who, giving up fame and for- 
tune, had retired with an amiable wife to happiness 
and obscurity, on an income of only forty pounds 
a year. The great affection Goldsmith bore for this 
brother is expressed in the poem before mentioned, 
which gives a striking picture of his situation. 

From Geneva, Mr. Goldsmith and his pupil pro- 
ceeded to the South of France ; where the young 
. man, upon some disagreement with his preceptor, 
paid him the small part of his salary which was due, 
and embarked at Marseilles for England. Our wan- 
derer was left once more upon the world at large, 
and passed through a number of difficulties in tra- 
versing the greatest part of France. At length hia 
curiosity being gratified, he bent his course towards 
England, and arrived at Dover, the beginning of the 
winter, in the year 1758. 

His finances were so low on bis return to England, 
that he with difficulty got to the metropolis, his 
whole stock of cash amounting to no more than a few* 
halfpence. An entire sti anger in London, his mind 
A 2 


THE LIFE or 


yi 

■was filled with the most gloomy reflections in con- 
sequence of his embarrassed situation. He applied ' 
to several apothecaries, in hopes of being received in 
the capacity of a journeyman ; but his broad Irish 
accent, and the uncouthness of his appearance, oc- 
casioned him to meet with insult from most.of the 
medical tribe. The next day, a chymist, near Fish- 
street, struck with his forlorn condition, and the sim 
plicity of his manner, took him into his laboratory ; 
where he continued till he discovered that his old 
friend. Dr. Sleigh, was in London. That gentle- 
man received him with the warmest affection, and 
liberally inyited him to share his purse till some esta- 
blishment could be procured for him. Goldsmith, 
unwilling to be a burden to his friend, a short time 
after eagerly embraced an offer which was made him 
to assist the late Rev. Dr. Milner, in instructing the 
young gentlemen at the academy at Peckbam ; and 
acquitted himself greatly to the Doctor’s satisfaction 
for a short time ; but, having obtained some reputa- 
tion by the criticisms he had written in the Monthly 
Reveiw, Mr. Griffith, the principal proprietor, en- 
gaged him in the compilation of it; and resolving to 
pursue the profession of writing, he returned to Lon- 
don, as the mart where abilities of every kind were 
sure of meeting distinction and reward. Here he de- 
termined to adopt a plan of the strictest economy, 
and at the close of the year 1759, took lodgings in 
Green- Arbour Court, in the Old Bailey, whore he 
wrote several ingenious pieces. The late Mr. New- 
bery, who at that time gave great encouragement to 
men of literary abilities, became a kind of patron to 

.r »*• 


DR. GOLDSMITH 


vii 

our young author, and introduced him as one of the 
writers in the Public Ledger, in which the Citizen of 
the World originally appeared, under the title of 
‘ Chinese Letters.’ During this time (according to 
another account,) he wrote for the British Magazine, 
of which Dr. Smollet was then editor, most of those 
Essays and Tales which he afterward collected and 
published in a separate volume. He also wrote oc- 
casionally for the Critical Review; and it was the 
merit which he discovered in criticising a despicable 
translation of Ovid’s Fasii^ by a pedantic school- 
master, and his Inquiry into the Present State of 
Learning in Europe, which first introduced him to 
the acquaintance of Dr. Smollet, who recommended 
him to several literati, and to most of the booksellers, 
by whom he was afterward patronised. 

Fortune now seemed to take some notice of a man 
she had long neglected. The simplicity of his cha- 
racter, the integrity of his heart, and the merit of 
his productions, made his company very acceptable 
to a number of respectable persons ; and about the 
middle of the year 1762, he emerged from his mean 
apartments, near the Old Bailey, to the politer regions 
of the Temple, where he took handsome chambers, 
and lived in a genteel style. 

Among many other persons of distinction who 
were desirous to know him, was the Duke of 
Nortnumberland. The Doctor, vain of the honour 
done him, was continually mentioning it. One of 
those ingenious executors of the law, 4 bailiff, who 
had a writ against him, determined to turn this cir- 
cumstance to his own advantage ; he wrote him a 


VllI THE LIFE OF 

letter, that he was steward to a nobleman who was 
charmed with reading his last production, and had 
ordered him to desire the Doctor to appoint a place 
where he might have the honour of meeting him, to 
conduct him to his Lordship. The vanity of poor 
Goldsmith immediately swallowed the bait ; he ap- 
pointed the British Coffee-house, to which he was 
accompanied by his friend, Mr. Hamilton, the printer 
of the Critical Review, who in vain remonstrated on 
the singularity of the apphcation. On entering the 
coffee-room, the bailiff paid his respects to the Doctor, 
and desired that he might have the honour of im- 
mediately attending him. They had scarce entered 
Pall-mall, in their way to his Lordship^ when the bailiff 
produced his writ. Mr. Hamilton generously paid 
the money, and redeemed the Doctor from captivity. 

The publications of his Travellevy his Vicar of 
Wakefdd, and his History of England, were followed 
by his Comedy of The Good-natured Man, at Covent- 
Garden theatre, which placed him in the first rank 
of modern writers. 

With respect to the Vicar of Wakefeld, it is 
certainly a composition which has justly merited the 
applause of all discerning readers, as one of the best 
novels in the English language. The diction is 
chaste, correct, and elegant; the characters are 
drawn to the life, and the scenes it exhibits are inge- 
niously variegated with humour and sentiment. The 
hero of the piece displays the most shining virtues 
that can adorn relative and social life ; sincere in 
his profession, humane and generous in his dispo- 
sition, he is himself a pattern of the character he 



DR. GOLDSMITH. 


IX 


represents, enforcing that excellent maxim, that ex- 
ample is more powerful than precept. His wife Is 
drawn as possessing many laudable qualifications, 
and her prevailing passion for eternal parade is an 
inoffensive foible, calculated rather to excite our 
.nirth than incur pur censure. The character of 
Olivia, the Vicar’s eldegt daughter, is contrasted 
w’ith that of Sophia, the younger ; the one being re- 
presented as of a disposition gay and volatile, the 
other as rather grave and steady; though neither of 
them seem to have indulged their peculiar propen • 
sity beyon.d the bounds of moderation. 

Upon a review of this excellent production, it may 
be truly said that it inculcates the purest lessons of 
morality and virtue, free from the rigid laws of stoic- 
ism, and adapted to attract the esteem and observa- 
tion of every ingenuous mind. It excites not 
thought that can be injurious in its tendency, nor 
breathes an idea that can offend the chastest ear 

Our Doctor, as he was now universally called, 
had a constant levee of his distressed countrymen, 
whose wants, as far as he was able, he always re- 
lieved ; and he has often been known to leave himself 
even without a guinea, in order to supply the neces- 
sities of others. 

Another feature in his character we cannot help 
laying before the reader. Previous to the publication 
of his Deserted Village, the bookseller had given him 
a note for one hundred guineas for the copy, which 
the Doctor mentioned, a few hours after, to one of 
his friends, who observed it was a very great sum for 
so short a performance. ‘ In truth,’ replied Gold- 


X 


THB 


smith, ‘I think so too; it is much more than the 
honest man can afford, or the piece is worth ; I have 
not been easy since I received it ; I will therefore go 
back, and return him his note which he actually 
did, and left it entirely to the bookseller to pay him 
according to the profits produced by the sale of the 
poem, which turned out very considerable. 

The description of the parish priest (probably in- 
tended for a character of his brother Henry) would 
have done honour to any poet of any age. In this 
description, the simile of the bird teaching her young 
to fly, and of the mountain that rises above the 
storm, are not easily paralleled^' The rest of the 
.poem consists of the character of the village school- 
master, and a description of the village ale-house, 
both drawn with admirable propriety and force; 
a descant on the mischiefs of luxury and wealth ; 
the variety of artificial pleasures ; the miseries of 
those, who, for want of employment at home, are 
driven to settle in new colonies abroad ; and con- 
cludes with a beautiful apostrophe to poetry. 

The Doctor did not reap a profit from his poetical 
labours equal to those of his prose. The Earl of 
Lisburne, whose classical taste is well known, one 
day at a dinner of the Royal Academicians, lament- 
ed to the Doctor his neglecting the Muses ; and in- 
quired of him, why he forsook poetry, in which he 
was sure of charming his readers, to compile his- 
tories and write novels ? The Doctor replied, ‘ My 
Lord, by courting the Muses, I shall starve ; but by 
my other labours, I enjoy the luxuries of life.* 

During the last rehearsal of his comedy, entitled 


DR. GOLDSMITH. 


XI 


She Stoops to Conquer, which Mr. Colman thought 
would not succeed, on the Doctor’s objecting to the 
repetition of one of Tony Lumpkin’s speeches, being 
apprehensive it might injure the play, the manager, 
with great keenness replied, ‘ Psha, my dear Doctor, 
do not be fearful of squibs, when we have been sit- 
ting almost these two hours upon a barrel of gun- 
powder.^ The piece, however, contrary to Mr. Col- 
man’s expectation, was received with uncommon 
applause by the audience ; and Goldsmith’s pride 
was so hurt by the severity of this observation, that 
it entirely put an end to his friendship for the gentle • 
man who made it. 

The success of the comedy of She Stoops to Con- 
quer, produced a most illiberal personal attack on the 
author in one of the public prints. Enraged at this 
abusive publication. Dr. Goldsmith repaired to the 
house of the publisher ; and after remonstrating on 
the malignity of this attack on his character, began 
to apply his cane to the shoulders of the publisher, 
who, making a powerful resistance, from being the 
defensive, soon became the offensive combatant. Dr. 
Kenrick, who was sitting in a private room of the 
publisher’s, hearing a noise in the shop, came in, put 
an end to the fight, and conveyed the Doctor to a 
coach. The papers instantly teemed with fresh 
abuse on the impropriety of the Doctor’s attempt- 
ing to beat a person in his own house, on which, 
in the -Daily Advertiser of Wednesday, March Slst, 
1773, he inserted the following address* 


THE LIFE or 


XU 

TO THE PUBLIC. 

Lest it shouid be supposed that I have been willing to correct in 
others an abuse of which I have been guilty myself, I beg leave 
to declare, that in all my life I never wrote or dictated a single 
paragraph, letter, •'r essay, in a newspaper, except a few moral 
essays, under the character of a Chinese, about ten years ago, in 
tlie Ledger'^ and a letter, to which I signed my name, in th6 
James’s Chronicle. If the liberty of the press therefore has been 
abused, I have had no hand in it. 

I have always considered the press as the protector of our 'free- 
dom, as a watchful guardian, capable of uniting the weak against 
the encroachments of power. 'SMiat concerns the public most 
properly admits of a public discussion. But of late, the press has 
turned from defending public interest, to making inroads upon 
‘ private life ; from combating the strong to overwhehnhig the fee- 
ble. No condition is now too obscure for its abuse, and the pro- 
tector is become the tyrant of the people. In this manner the 
freedom of the press is beginning to sow the seeds of its own dis- 
solution ; the great must oppose it from principle, and the weak 
from fear ; till at last every rank of mankind shall be found to 
give up its benefits, content with security from its insults. 

How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which all are indis- 
criminately abused, and by which vice consequently escapes in the 
general censure, I am unable to tell; all I could wish is, that as the 
law gives us no protection against the injury, so it should give ca 
lumniators nb shelter, after having provoked correction. The 
insults which we receive before the public, by being more open are 
the more distressing; by treating them with silent contempt, we 
do not pay a sufficient deference to the opinion of the world ; by 
recurring to legal redress, we too often expose the weakness of 
the law, which only serves to increase our mortification by fail- ! 
ing to relieve us. In short, every man should singly consider him- 
self as a guardian of the liberty of tlie press, and as far as his in- 
fluence can extend, should endeavour to prevent its licentiousness 
becoming at last the grave of its freedom. 

OLIVER goldsmith: 


DR. BOLDSMITH. 


xiii 

^Notwithstanding the great success of his pieces, by 
come of which, it is asserted, upon good authority, 
that he cleared 18001. in one year, his circumstances 
were by no means in a prosperous situation ; partly 
owing to the liberality of his disposition, and partly 
to an unfortunate habit he had contracted of gam- 
ing, with the arts of which he was very little ac- 
quainted, and consequently became the prey of those 
who were unprincipled enough to take advantage 
of his ignorance. 

Just before his death, he had formed a design for 
executing a Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sci- 
ences, the prospectus of which he actually printed 
and distributed among his acquaintance. In this 
work, several of his literary friends (particularly Sir 
Joshua Reynolds, Dr. Johnson, and Mr. Garrick) had 
promised to assist, and to furnish him with articles 
upon ditferent subjects. He had entertained the most 
sanguine expectations from the success of it. The 
undertaking, however, did not meet with that encou • 
ragement from the booksellers which he had ima - 
gined it would receive ; and*he used to lament this 
circumstance almost to the last hour of his existence. 

He had been for some years afflicted, at different 
times, with a violent strangury, which contributed 
not a little to embitter the latter part of his life ; and 
which, united with the vexations' he suffered upon 
other occasions, brought on a kind of habitual de- 
sponaency. In this unhappy condition, he was at- 
tacked by a nervous fever. 

On Friday the twenty-fifth of March, 1774, find- 
ing himself extremely ill, he sent at eleven o’clock 


XIV 


THE LIFE OF 


Et night for Mr. Hawses, an apotnecary, to whom ho 
complained of a violent pain extending all over the 
fore part of his head ; his tongue was moist ; he had 
a cold shivering ; and his pulse beat about ninety 
strokes in a minute., He acquainted him he had 
taken two ounces of ipecacuanha wine as a vomit, 
and that it was his intention to take Dr» James’s 
fever powders, which he desired him to send him. 
Mr. Hawes replied, that in his opinion this medi- 
cine was very improper at iJiat time, and begged he 
would not think of it; but every argument used* 
seemed only to render him more determined in his 
own opinion. 

Mr. Hawes, knowing that in preceding illnesses 
Dr. Goldsmith always consulted Dr. Fordyce, and 
that he had expressed the greatest opinion of his 
abilities as a physician, requested that he might be 
permitted to send for him. It was a full quarter of 
an hour before Mr. Hawes could obtain his consent, 
as the taking Dr. James’s powders appeared to be 
the only object which employed his attention; and 
even then he endeavoured to throw an obstacle in 
his way, by saying, that Dr. Fordyce was gone to 
spend the evening in Gerard-street, ‘ where,* added 
he, ‘ I should also have been, if I had not been in- 
disposed.’ Mr. Hawes immediately despatched a 
messenger, who found Dr. Fordyce at home, and 
who waited on Dr. Goldsmith directly. 

Dr. Fordyce represented the impropriety of taking 
the powders in his then situation ; but he was deaf 
to all remonstrances, and persisted in his resolution. 

On Saturday morning, March 26th, Mr. Hawes 


DR. GOLDSMITH. 


XV 


Visited his patient, whom he found extremely re- 
duced, and his pulse was now become very quick 
and small. When he inquired of him how he did. 
Dr. Goldsmith sighed deeply, and in a low voice said, 
he wished he had taken his friendly advice last night. 
Dr. Fordyce perceiving the danger of Dr. Gold- 
I smith’s situation, desired Mr. Hawes to propose send- 
i ing for Dr. Turton, of whom he knew Dr. Gold- 
smith had a great opinion : the proposal being men > 
tioned to Dr. Goldsmith, he very readily consented, 

I and ordered his servant to go directly. Doctors For- 
dyce and Turton met at the time appointed to assist 
at a consultation, which was continued twice a day 
S till the disorder terminated in his dissolution, on the 
4th of April, 1774, in the 45th year of his age. 

This event was at the time invidiously attributed 
to the use of James’s powders. The, truth is, that 
on the attack of his disorder, he took two ounces of 
I ipecacuanha wine as an emetic ; and before the ope- 
ration of it was over he sent to his apothecary for a 
dose of James’s powder. 

However reduced in consequence of the evacua- 
p, tions occasioned by the two medicines united, yet 
^ when his physicians were called in, two days after- 
ward, he had a remission of his fever, and they were 
not without hope of restoring him, if he would have 
I followed their advice; but he omitted taking the 
bark as directed ; and then, from an idea that his 
apothecary had given him James’s powder that was 
not genuine, he sent for another apothecary, from 
whom he ordered other medicines. In short, he ap- 
pears to have fallen a victim to his own imprudence. 


XVI 


THE LIFE OF 


His friends, who were very numerous and respect-^ 
able, had determinea to bury him in Westminster 
Abbey ; his pall was to have been supported by Lord 
Shelburne,, Lord Louth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, the 
Hon. Mr. Beauclerc, Mr. Edmund Burke, and Mr. 
Garrick; but from some unaccountable circum- 
stances, this design was dropped, and his remains 
were privately deposited in the Temple burial- 
ground, on Saturday the 9th of April; when Mr. 
Hugh Kelly, Messrs. John and Robert Day, Mr. 
Palmer, Mr. Etherington, and Mr. Hawes, gentle- 
men who had been his friends in life, attended Ins 
corpse as mourners, and paid the last tribute to ^lis 
memory, 

A subscription, however, was afterward raised 
by his friends, to defray the expense of a marble 
monument, which was executed by Mr. Nollikens, 
an eminent statuary in London, and placed in West- 
minster Abbey, between Gay’s monument and the 
Duke of Argyle’s, in the Poet’s corner. It consists 
of a large medallion, exhibiting a very good like- 
ness of the Doctor, embellished with literary orna- 
ments, underneath which is a tablet of white mar- 
ble, with the following Latin inscription, written by 
his friend Dr. Samuel Johnson ; 

Olivari Goldsmith, 

Poetae, Physici, Historici : 

Qui nullum fere scribendi genus 
Non tetigit? 

Nulltim quod tetigit non omavit, 

Sive Risus essent movendi, 

Sive Lacrymae: 

AfFectuum potens, at lenis Dominator ; 

Inge^iio subhmis — Vivi(|us, Versatilis ; 


BR. GOLDSMITH. 


XVJl 


Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus : 

Hoc Monumentum Memoriam coluit, 

Sodaliurn Amor, 

/ Amicorum Fides, 

Lectorum Veneratio. 

, Natus Hibernia Forniae Lonfordiensis, 

In loco cui nomen Pallas 
Nov. xxix. MDCCXXXI. 

Eblanae Literis institutus, 

Obiit Londini 
April iv. MDCCLXXIV. 

Translation. 

This Monument is raised 
To the Memory of 
Oliver Goldsmith, 

Poet, Natural Philosopher, and 
Historian, 

Who left no species of writing untouch’d, 

' or 

Unadom’d by his pen, ' 

Whether to move laughter, 

Or draw tears: 

He was a powerful master 
Over the affections. 

Though at the same time a gentle tyrant. 

Of a genius at once sublime, lively, and 
Equal to every subject: 

In expression at once noble, 

Pure and delicate. 

His Memory will last 

As long as Society retains Affection, .. „ 
Friendship is not void of Honour, 

And Reading wants not her Admirers. 

' He was born in tlie kingdom of Ireland, _ 

At Femes, in the province 
Of Leinster, 

Where Pallas had set her name, 

29th Nov. 1731. 

He was educated at Dublin, 

And died in London, 

• . 4th April, 1774. 

The universal esteem in which his poems are held, 
and the repeated pleasure they give in the perusal, 
are striking proofs of their merit. He was a studious 

B 2 


THE LIFE OF 


XVlii 

nnd correct observer of nature, happy in the selection 
of his images, in the choice of subjects, and in the 
harmony of his versification ; and though his embar- 
rassed situation prevented him from putting the last 
hand to many of his productions, his Hermit^ his 
Traveller, and his Deserted Village, bid fair to claim 
a place among the most finished pieces in the Eng- 
lish language. 

The excellent poem of Retaliation was only in- 
tended for the Doctor’s private amusement, and that 
of the particular friends who were its subject, and he 
unfortunately did not live to revise, or even finish it 
in the manner which he intended. The poem owed 
Its birth to some preceding circumstances of festive 
merriment at a literary club, to which the Doctor 
belonged, and who proposed to write epitaphs on 
him. He was called on for retaliation, and at the 
next meeting produced the poem. 

The last work of this ingenious author was, 
History of the Earth and Animated JVature, in 8 vols. 
8vo. for which production his bookseller gave him 
85/. The Doctor seems to have considered atten- 
tively the works of the several authors who have 
written on this subject. If there should not be a 
great deal of discovery, or new matter, yet a judi- 
cious selection from abundant materials is no small 
praise ; and if the experiments and discoveries of 
other writers are laid open in an agreeable dress, so 
pleasing as to allure the young reader into a pursuit 
of this sort of knowledge, we have no small obliga- 
tions to this very engaging writer. 

Our author professes to have had a taste rather 


"•Xf 


DR. GOLDSMITH. 


xix 


Classical than scientific, and' it was in the study oif 
the classics, that he first caught the desire of attain- 
ing a knowledge of nature. Pliny first inspired him, 
and he resolved to translate that agreeable writer, 
and by the help of a commentary, to make his trans- 
lation acceptable to the public. 

To attempt to convey a proper idea of his great 
genius in poetry, would be a task to which we must 
acknowledge ourselves totally incompetent: their 
beauties cannot be pictured by relation ; they can 
only be known by his writings. 



THE 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

I 

CHAP. I 

THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN 
WHICH A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS WELL 
OF MINDS AS OF PERSONS. 

1 WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man, who 
maiTied and brought up a large family, did more 
service than he who continued single, and only 
talked of population. From this motive, I had scarce 
i taken orders a year, before I began to think seri- 
' ously of matrimony, and chose my wife, as she did 
I her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but 
\ such qualities as would wear weU. To do her jus- 
I tjce, she was a good natured, notable woman ; and 
8 as for breeding, there were few country ladies who 
I could' show more. She could read any English 
I boidc without much spelling ; but for pickling, pre- 
! serving, and cookery, none could excebher. She 
j prided herself also upon being an excellent coii- 
I triver in house-keeping ; though I could never find 
that we grew richer with all her contrivances. 

However, we loved each other tenderly, and our 
fondness increased as we grew old. There was, in 
fact, nothing that could make us angry with the 
world or each other. We had an elegant house, 
situate in a fine country, and a good neighbour- 


22 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ? 

hood. The year was spent in moral or rural amuse- 
ment ; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving 
such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, 
nor fatigues to undergo ; all our adventures were by 
the fire-side, and all our migrations from the blue 
bed to the brown. 

As we lived near the road, we often had the tra- 
veller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry 
wine, for which we had great reputation ; and I pro- 
fess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never 
knew one of them find fault with it. ' Our cousina 
too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered 
their affinity, without any help from the herald’s 
office, and came very frequently to see us. Some 
of them did us no great honour by these claims of 
kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the 
halt, among the number. However, my wife al- 
ways insisted, that as they were the same flesh and 
lloodf they should sit with us at the same table. 
So that if we had not very rich, we generally had 
very happy friends about us ; for this remark will 
hold good through hfe, that the poorer the guest^ 
the better pleased he ever is with being treated ; and 
as some men gaze with admiration at the colours 
of a tulip or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by 
nature an admirer of happy human faces. How* 
ever, when any one of our relations was found to 
be a person of a very bad character, a troublesome 
guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his 
leaving my house, I ever took care to lend him a 
riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a 
horse of small value, and I always had the ^tia 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


23 


faction to find he never came back to return them. 

this, the house was cleared of such as we did not 
like ; but never was the family of Wakefield known 
to turn the traveller or the poor dependant out of 
doors. 

Thus we lived several years in a state of much 
happiness, not but that we sometimes had those 
little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the 
value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed 
by school-boys, and my wife’s custards plundered 
by the cats or the children. The squire would 
sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of 
my sermon, or his lady return my wife’s civilities at 
church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got 
over the uneasiness caused by such accidents ; and 
usually in three or four days began to wonder how 
they vexed us. 

My children, the offspring of temperance, as they 
were educated without softness, so they were at 
once well-formed and healthy ; my sons hardy and 
active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. 
When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which 
promised to be the support of my declining age, I 
could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count 
Abensberg, who, in Henry II.’s progress through 
Germany, while other courtiers came with their 
treasures, brought his thirty-two children, and pre- 
sented them to his sovereign as the most valuable 
offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though 
I had but six, I considered them as a very valuable 
present made to my country, and consequently 
looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was 


24 


THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD 


named George after his uncle, who left us ten thou- 
sand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended 
to call after her aunt Grissel; but my wife, who, 
during her pregnancy, had been reading romances, 
insisted upon her being called Olivia, In less than 
another year, we had another daughter, and now I 
was determined that Grissel should be her name ; 
but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmo- 
ther, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia; 
so that we had two romantic names in the family ; 
but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses 
was our next, and after an interval of twelve years, 
we had two sons more. 

It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when 
I saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and 
the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than 
mine. When our visitors would say, ‘ Well, upon 
my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest chil- 
dren in the whole country.’ — ‘ Ay, neighbour,’ she 
would answer, ‘ they are as Heaven made them, 
handsome enough, if they be good enough; for 
handsome is, that handsome does.’ Arid then she 
would bid the girls hold up their heads ; who, to 
conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. 
Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance' 
with me, that I should scarce have remembered to 
mention it, had it not been a general topic of con- 
versation in the country. Olivia, now about eigh- 
teen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with which 
painters generally draw Hebe ; open, sprightly, and 
commanding. Sophia’s features were not so strik- 
ing at first ; but often did more certain execution • 


’ THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 25 

for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one 
vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts 
successively repeated. 

The temper of a woman is generally formed from 
the turn of her features, at least it was so with my 
daughters ; Olivia wished for many lovers, Sophia 
to secure one ; Olivia was often affected, from too 
great a desire to please ; Sophia even repressed ex- 
cellence, from her fears to offend ; the one entertain- 
ed me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other 
with her sense when I was serious ; but these qua- 
lities were never carried to excess in either; and I 
have often seen them exchange characters for a 
whole day together. A suit of mourning has trans- 
formed my coquet into a prude, and a new set of 
ribbands has given her youngest sister more than 
natural vivacity. My eldest son, George, was bred 
at Oxford ; as I intended him for one of the learned 
professions. My second boy, Moses, whom I de- 
signed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous 
education at home. But it is needless to attempt 
describing the particular characters of young peo- 
ple that had seen but very little of the world. ' In 
short a family likeness prevailed through all ; and, 
properly speaking, they had but one character, that 
of being all equally generous, credulous, simple,* 
and Inoffensive. 


C 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELO, 


2C 

f CHAP. II. 

FAMILY MISFORTUNES. THE LOSS OF FORTUNE 
ONLY SERVES TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE 
WORTHY. 

The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly 
committed to my wife’s management ; ^s to the spi* 
ritual, I took them entirely under my own direction. 
The profits of my living, which amounted to about 
^ thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the orphans 
and widows of thO clergy of our diocese ; for having 
a sufficient foftuhe of my own, I was careless of 
temporalities,' and felt a secret pleasure in doing 
my duty Without a reward. I also set a resolution 
of keeping ho curate, and of being acquainted with 
every mhn in the parish, exhorting the married men 
to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimony ; so 
that in a few years it was a common saying, that 
there were three strange wants at Wakefield, — i 
parson wanting pride, young men wanting wivesi 
and alehouses Wanting customers. 

Matrimony was always one of my favourite to- 
pics, and I wrote several sermons to prove its hap- 
piness ; but there was a peculiar tenet which I made 
a point of supporting ; for I maintained with Whis- 
ton, that it was unlawful for a priest of the’chufch 
of lEngland, after the death of his first wife, to take 
a second; nr, to express it in one word, I valued 
myself upon being a strict monogamist. 

1 w^as early initiated into this important disnute,' 
joh which sh mahv laborious volunies have beeil‘ 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


27 


written. I published some tracts upon the subject 
myself, which, as they never sold, I have the con- 
solation of thinking are read only by the happy few. 
Some of my friends called this my weak side ; but, 
alas ! they had not, like me, made it a subject of 
long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, 
the more important it appeared. I even went a step 
beyond Whiston in displaying my principles : as he 
had engraved upon his wife’s tomb, that she was 
the only wife of William Whiston ; so- 1 wrote a 
similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in 
which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obe- 
dience, till death ; and having got it copied fair, 
with an elegant frame, it was placed over the 
chimney-piece, where it answered several very use- 
ful purposes. It admonished my wife of her duty 
to me, and my fidelity to her ; it inspired her with 
a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind 
of her end. 

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so 
often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon 
leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daugh- 
ter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dig- 
nitary in the church, and in circumstances to give 
her a large fortune ; but fortune was her smallest 
accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allow- 
ed by all (except my two daughters) to be complete- 
ly pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence, were 
still heightened by a complexion so transparent, 
and such a happy sensibility of look, as even age 
could not gaze on with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot 
hnew that I could make a very handsome settlement 


28 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

on my son, he was not averse to the match ; so both 
families lived together in all that harmony which 
generally precedes an expected alliance. Being 
convinced by experience, that the days of courtship 
are the most happy of our lives, I was willing 
enough to lengthen the period ; and the various 
amusements which the young couple every day 
shared in each other’s company, seemed to increase 
their passion. We were generally awaked in the 
morning by music, and on fine days rode a hunting. 
The hours between breakfast and dinner, the ladies 
devoted to dress and study ; they usually read a 
page, and then gazed at themselves in the glass, 
which even philosophers might own, often present- 
ed the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife 
took the lead; for, as she always insisted upon 
carving every thing herself, it being her mother’s 
way, she gave us upon these occasions the history 
of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the 
ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to 
be removed ; and sometimes, with the music-mas- 
ter’s assistance, the girls would give us a very 
agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea, 
country dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of 
the daj, without the assistance of cards, as I hated 
all manner of gaming, except backgammon, at 
which my old friend and I, sometimes took a two- 
penny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous 
circumstance that happened the last time we played 
together : I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet 
I threw deuce-ace five times running. 

^ome months elapsed in this manner, till at last 


^THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.' 29 

it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nup- 
tials of the young couple, who seemed earnestly to 
desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, 
I need not describe the busy importance of my 
wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters : in fact, 
my attention was fixed on another object, the com- 
pleting a tract, which I intended shortly to publish, 
in defence of my favourite principle. As I looked 
upon this as a master-piece both for argument and 
style, I could not, in the pride of my heart, avoid 
showing it to my old friend, Mr. Wilmot, as I made 
no doubt of receiving his approbation ; but, not till 
too late, I discovered that he was most violently at- 
tached to the contrary opinion, and with good rea- 
son ; for he was at that time actually courting a 
fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced 
a dispute, attended with some acrimony, which 
threatened to interrupt our intended alliance ; but 
on the day before that appointed for the ceremony, 
we agreed to diScuss the subject at large. 

It was managed with proper spirit on both sides ; 
he asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted the 
charge : he replied, and I rejoined. In the mean 
time, while the controversy was hottest, I was 
called out by one of my relations, who, with a face 
of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at 
least till my son’s wedding was over. ‘ How!’ cried 
I, ‘ relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be a 
nusband, already driven to the verge of absurdity I 
You might as well advise me to give up my fortune 
as my argument.’ — ‘ Your fortune,’ returned my 
friend, ‘ I am now sorry to inform you, is most no- 
' C2 


30 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


thing. The merchant in town, in whose hands 
your money was lodgell, has gone off, to avoid a 
statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have 
left a shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to 
shock you, or the family, with the account, till 
after the wedding ; but now it may serve to mode- 
rate your warmth in the argument ; for I suppose 
your own prudence will enforce the necessity of 
dissembling, at least till your son has the young 
lady’s fortune secure.’ — ‘ Well,’ returned I, ‘ if what 
you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, it 
shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to dis- 
avow my principles. I’ll go this moment, and in 
form the company of my circumstances; and as for 
the argument, I even here retract my former con 
cessions in the old gentleman’s favour, nor wm’11 I 
allow him now to be a husband in any sense of the 
expression.’ 

It would be endless to describe the different sen- 
sations of both families, when I divulged the news 
of our misfortune ; but what others felt was slight 
to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wil- 
mot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to 
break off the match, was by this blow soon deter- 
mined ; one virtue he had in perfection, which was 
prudence ; too often the only one that is left us at 
seventy-two. 




THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


31 


CHAP. III. 

A MIGRATION. THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF 
OUR LIVES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BB 
OF OUR OWN PROCURING. 

The only hope of our family now was, that the 
report of our misfortunes might be malicious or 
premature ; but a letter from my agent in town 
soon came with a confirmation of every particular. 
The loss of fortune to myself alone would have 
been trifling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my 
family, who were to be humbled without an educa- 
tion to render them’ callous to contempt. 

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted 
to restrain their affliction ; for premature consola- 
tion is but the remembrance of sorrrow. During 
this interval, my thoughts were employed on some 
future means of supporting them ; and at last a 
small cure of fifteen pounds a year was oflfered me 
in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy 
my principles without molestation. With this propo- 
sal I joyfully closed, having determined to increase 
my salary, by managing a little farm. 

Having taken this resolution, my next care was 
to get together the wrecks of my fortune ; and, all 
debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand 
pounds, we had but four hundred remaining. My 
chief attention, therefore, was now to bring down 
the pride of my family to their circumstances ; for 
1 well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness 
itself. ‘ You cannot be ignorant, my children,’ cried 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD^' 


3 ? 



I, ‘that no prudence of our’s could have prevenlicct 
our late misfortune; but prudence may do much ra 
disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my 
fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our hum- 
ble situation. Let us then, without repining, give 
up those splendours with which numbers are 
wretched, and seek, in humbler circumstances, that 
peace with which all may be happy. The poor live 
pleasantly without our help ; why then should not 
we learn to live without their’s ? No, my children, 
let us from this moment give up all pretensions te 
gentility ; we have still enough left for happiness, if, 
we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the 
deficiencies of fortune.* 

As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined 
to send him to town, where his abilities might con- 
tribute to our support and his own. The separation 
of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most 
distresful circumstances attendant on penury. The 
day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for 
the first time. My son, after taking leave of his 
mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with 
their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. This 
I gave him from my heart, and which, added to five 
guineas, was 0,11 the patrimony I had now to bestow. 

‘You are going, my boy,’ cried I, ‘to London on 
foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, 
travelled there before you. Take from me the 
same horse that was given him by the good Bishop 
Jewel, this staff, and take this book too, it will be 
your comfort on the way : these two lines in it are 
worth a million ; I have been youngs and. now am' 


I 

1 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 33 

4)ld; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken^nor 
his seed begging their bread. Let this be your con- 
eolation as you travel on. Go, rny boy ; whatever 
be thy fortune, let me see thee once a year; still 
keep a good heart, and farcAvell.’ As he was 
possessed of integrity and honour, I was under no 
apprehensions from throwing him naked into the 
ampitheatre of life ; for I knew he would act a 
good part, whether vanquished or victorious. 

His departure only prepared the way for ouf 
own, which arrived a few days afterwards. The 
leaving of a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed 
so many hours of tranquillity, was not without 
a tear, which scarce fortitude itself could sup- 
press ; besides, a journey of seventy miles, to a 
family that had hitherto never been above ten from 
home, filled us with apprehension ; and the cries of 
the poor, who followed us for some miles, contri- 
buted to increase it. The first day’s journey 
brought us in safety within thirty «^miles of our 
future retreat, and we put up for the night at an 
obscure inn in a village by the way. When wo 
were shown a room, I desired the landlord, in my 
usual way, to let us have his company, with which 
he complied, as what he drank would increase the 
bill next morning. He knew, however, the whole 
neighbourhood to which I was removing, particular- 
ly Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and 
who lived within a few miles of the place. This 
gentleman he described as one who desired to know 
little more of the world than its pleasures, being 
particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair 


34 fHE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

sex. He observed that no virtue was able to resist ^ 
his arts and assiduity, and that there was scarce a | 
farmer’s daughter within ten miles round but what I 
had found him successful and faithless. Though this | 
account gave me some pain, it had a very different I 
effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed 
to brighten with the expectation of an approaching I 
triumph; nor was my wife less pleased and confi- ' 
dent of their allurements and virtue. While our 
thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered 
the room to inform her husband, that the strange 
gentleman, who had been two days in the house, 
wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his 
reckoning. ‘Want money!’ replied fhe host, ‘ that 
must be impossible ; for it was no later than yester- 
day he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an 
old broken soldier that was to be "vyhipped through 
the town for dog-stealing.’ The hostess, however, 
still persisting in her first assertion, he was prepar- 
ing to leave the room, swearing that he would be 
satisfied one way or another, when J begged the 
landlord would introduce me to a stranger of so 
much charity as he described. With this he com- 
plied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be 
about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were 
laced : his person was well formed, and his face 
marked with the lines of thinking : he had some- 
thing short and dry in his address, and seemed not 
to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon 
the landlord’s leaving the room, I could not avoid 
expressing my concern for the stranger, at seeing a 
gentlem^ in such circumstances, and offered him 


THfc ViOAil OF WAltEFIELDi 


S5 

lS\y piirse to satisfy the present demand. ‘ 1 take it. 
with all my heart, sir,’ replied he, ‘ and am glad, 
that a late oversight in giving what money I had 
about me, has shown me, that there are still some 
men like you I must, however, previously entreat 
being informed of the name and residence of my 
benefactof, in order to repay him as soon as possi- 
ble.’ In this I satisfied him fully,- not only men- 
tioning my name and late misfortune, biit the place 
to which I was going to remove. ‘ This,’ cried he,^ 
‘ happens* still more lucky than I hoped for, as I 
am going the same way myself, having been detain- 
ed here two days by the floods, which I hope, by to- 
morrow, will be found passable.’ I testified the 
pleasure I should have in his company, and my 
wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was pre- 
vailed upon to stay to supper. The stranger’s con- 
versation, which was at once pleasing and instruc- 
tive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it ; 
but it was now high time to retire, and take refresh- 
ment against the fatigues of the following day. 

The next morning we all set forward to’getheif ; 
my family on horseback,' while Mn' Burchell, our 
new companion, walked along the foOt-path by the 
road side, observing, with a smile, that as we were 
ill mounted,' he would be too generous to attempt 
leaving us behind. As the floods «were not yet 
subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who 
trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and I bringing up 
the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road 
t^ith philosophical disputes, which he seemed to un- 
derstand perfectly. But what surprized' me mok 


36 THE VICAR OF WAKEiflELD. 

was, that though he was a money-borrower, he 
defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if 
he had ]»een my jiatron. He now and then also 
informed me to whom the different seats belonged 
that lay in our view as we travelled the road. — 
* That,’ cried he, pointing to a very magnificent 
house which stood at some distance, ‘belongs to 
Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a 
large fortune, though entirely dependant on the will 
of his uncle. Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman 
who, content with a little himself, permits his ne- 
phew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.’ 
‘ What !’ cried I, ‘ is my young landlord then the 
nephew of a man whose virtues, generosity, and sin- 
gularities, are so universally known ? I have heard 
Sir William Thornhill represented as one of tho 
most generous, yet whimsical men in the kingdom ; 
a man of consummate benevolence.’ — ‘ Something, 
perhaps, too much so,’ replied Mr. Burchell ; ‘ at 
least he carried benevolence to an excess when 
young; for his passions were then strong, and as 
they all were upon the side of virtue, they led lit up 
to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at 
the qualifications of the soldier and the scholar; 
was soon distinguished in the army, and had some 
reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever 
follows the ambitious ; for such alone receive most 
pleasure from flattery. He was surrounded with 
crowds, who showed him only one side of their 
character ; so that he began to lose a regard for pri- 
vate interest in universal sympathy. He loved all 
mankind ; for fortune prevented him from knowing 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.' 37 

that there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a 
disorder in which the whole body is so exquisitely 
sensible, that the slightest touch gives pain; what 
some have thus suffered in their persons, this gen- 
tleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whe- 
ther real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and 
his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility of the 
miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it 
will be easily conjectured, he found numbers dis- 
posed to solicit ; his profusions began to impair his 
fortune, but not his good nature ; that indeed was 
seen to increase as the i*.her seemed to decay; 
he grew improvident as he grew poor ; and though 
he talked like a man of sense, his actions were 
those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded 
with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy 
every request that was made him, instead of money ^ 
he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow, 
and he had not resolution enough to give any man 
pain by a denial. By this he drew round him 
crowds of dependants, whom he was sure to disap- 
point, yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him 
for a time, and left him with merited reproaches 
and contempt. But, in proportion as he became 
contemptible to others, he became despicable to 
himself. His mind had leaned upon their adu- 
lation, and that support taken away, he could 
find no pleasure in the applause of his heart* 
which he had never learned to reverence. The 
world now began to wear a difterent aspect ; the 
flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple 
approbation; approbation soon took die more 
E 


3'8 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELH. 


. -TTr 


friendly form of advice ; and advice, when rejecteif, 
produced their reproaches. He now, therefore, 
found that such S*iends as benefits had gathered 
round him, were little estimable ; he now found 
that a man’s own heart must be ever given to gain 
that of another. I now found, that — that — I for- 
got what I was going to observe — in short, Sir, he 
resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan 
of restoring his falling fortune. For this purpose, 
in his own whimsical manner, he travelled through 
Europe on foot ; and now, though he has scarce 
attained the age of tLhty, his circumstances are 
more affluent than ever. At present his bounties 
are more rational and moderate than before ; but 
he still preserves the character of a humourist, and 
finds most pleasure ih the eccentric virtues.’ 

My attention was so much taken up by Mr. 
Burchell’s account, that I scarce looked forward as 
we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries 
of my family ; when turning, I perceived my young- 
est daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown 
from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. 
She had sunk twice, norVas it in my power to dis- 
engage myself in time to bring her relief. My 
sensations were even too violent to permit my 
attempting her rescue: she must have certainly 
perished, had not my companion, perceiving her 
danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and, 
with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the 
opposite shore. By taking the current a little far- 
ther up the rest of the family got safely over; 
where he had an opportunity of joining our ac 


THE VieAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


39 


Icnowledgements to her’s. Her gratitude may be 
^ more readily imagined than described ; she thanked 
her deliverer more with looks than words, and 
continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing 
to receive assistance. My wife also hoped one 
day to have the pleasure of returning his kindness 
at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed 
at the next inn, and had dined together, as Mr. 
Burchell was going to a different part of the coun- 
try, he took leave, and we pursued our journey ; 
my wife observing, as we went, that she liked him 
extremely, and protesting, that if he had birth and 
fortune to entitle him to match into such a family 
amour’s, she knew no man she would sooner fix 
npon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in 
this lofty strain ; but I was never much displeased 
with those harmless delusions that tend to make us 
more happy. 

t 

CHAP IV. 

A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAT 
©RANT HAPPINESS, WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIR- 
CUMSTANCES, BUT CONSTITUTION. 

The place of our retreat was in a little neighbour 
hood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own 
grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and 
poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences 
of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns 
or cities in search of superfluities. Remote from 
polite, they still retained the primeval simplicity 


40 I THE FICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 

of manners ; and frugal by habit, they scarce knew 
that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with 
cheerfulness on days of labour ; but observed festi- 
vals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They 
kept up the Christmas carol, sent true-love knots on 
Valentine-morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide i 
showed their wit on the first of April, and reli ^ 
giously cracked nuts on Michaelmas-eve. Being ap 
prized of our approach, the whole neighbourhood 
came out to meet their minister, dressed in their fine 
clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor ; a feast 
was also provided for our reception, at which we 
sat cheerfully down ; and what the conversation | 
wanted in wit, was made up in laughter. I 

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a ' 
sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood 
behind, and a prattling river before ; on one side a 
meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted 
of about twenty acres of excellent land, having 
given a hundred pounds for my predecessor’s good 
will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my lit- 
tle enclosures, the elms and hedge-rows appearing 
with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of 
but one story, and was covered with thatch, which 
gave it an air of great snugness ; the walls on the 
inside were nicely white-washed, and ray daughters 
undertook to adorn them with pictures of their own 
designing. Though the same room served us for 
parlour and kitchen, that only made it the warmer;' 
besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, 
the dishes, plates, and coppers, being well scoured, 
and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


41 


eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer 
furniture. There were three other apartments, one 
for my wife and me, another for our two daughters 
within our own, and the third, with two beds, for 
the rest of the children. 

The little republic to which I gave laws, was re- 
gulated in the following manner ; by sun-rise we all 
assembled in our common apartment, the fire being 
previously kindled by the servant; after we had 
saluted each other with proper ceremony, for I al- 
ways thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms 
of good-breeding, without which freedom ever de- 
stroys friendship, w’^e all bent in gratitude to that 
Being who gave us another day. This duty being 
performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual 
industry abroad, while my wife and my daughters 
employed themselves in providing breakfast, which 
was always ready at a certain time. I allowed half 
an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner; 
which time was taken up in innocent mirth between 
my wife and daughters, and philosophical arguments 
betv^een my son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our 
labour after it was gone down, but returned home 
to the expecting family ; where smiling looks, a 
neat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for 
our reception. Nor were we without guests ; some- 
times Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, 
and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, 
and taste our gooseberr 3 ’'-wine ; for the making of 
which we had lost neither the receipt nor the repu- 
tation. These harmless people had several ways 
' ' E2 


42 THE VICAR OF WAKllFIELE!. 

of being good company ; for while one played, the 
other would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Arm- 
strong’s Last Good-night, or the Cruelty of Barbara 
Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we 
began the morring, my youngest boys being ap- 
pointed to read the lessons of the day, and he 
that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to 
have a half-penny on Sunday to put into the poor’s 
box. 

When Sunday came, it 'was indeed a day of 
finery, which all my sumptuary edicts could not 
restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures 
against pride had conquered the vanity of my 
daughters, yet | still found them secretly attached 
to all their former finery ; they still loved laces, rib- 
bands, bugles, and catgut ; my wife herself retained 
a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I for- 
merly happened to say it became her. 

The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour 
served to mortify me : I had desired my girls the 
preceding night to be dressed early the next day ; for 
I always loved to be at church a good while before 
the rest of the congregation. They punctually 
obeyed my directions ; but when we were to assem- 
ble in the morning at breakfast, down came my 
wife and daughters, dressed out in all their former 
splendour, their hair plaistered up with pomatum, 
their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up 
into a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. 
1 could not help smihng at their vanity, particularly 
that of my wife. Iron;) whom I expected more dis- 
,'Cretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only re- 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


43 


source was to order my son, with an important air, 
to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the 
command ; but I repeated it with more solemnity 
than before. ‘ Surely, my dear, you jest,’ cried my 
wife, ‘ we can walk it perfectly well : we want no 
coach to carry us now.’ — ‘You mistake, child,’ re- 
turned I, ‘we do want a coach; for if we walk to 
church in this trim, the very children in the parish 
will hoot after us.’ — ‘ Indeed,’ replied my wife, 
♦ I always imagined that my Charles was fond of 
seeing his children neat and handsome about him.’ 
— ‘You may be as neat as you please,’ interrupt- 
ed I, ‘ and I shall love you the better for it ; but 
all this is not neatness, but frippery : these ruf- 
flings, and pinkings, and patchings, will only make 
us hated by all the wives of our neighbours. No, 
my children,’ continued I, more gravely, ‘ those 
gowns may be altered into something of a plainer 
cut ; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want 
the means of decency. I do not know whether such 
flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the 
rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, 
that the nakedness of the indigent world may be 
clothed from the trimmings of the vain.’ 

This remonstrance had the proper effect ; they 
went with great composure, that very instant, to 
change their dress; and the next day I had the 
satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own 
request, employed in cutting up their trains into 
f5unday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little 
ones; and what was still more satisfactory, the 
{Cowns seemed improved by this curtailing. 


4i THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

CHAP. V. 

A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED, 

WHAT WE PLACE MOST HOPES UPON GENERALLY 

PROVES MOST FATAL. 

At a small distance from the house, my prede- 
cessor had made a seat, overshaded by a hedge of 
hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the wea- 
ther was fine, and our labour soon finished, we 
usually feat together to enjoy an extensive land- 
scape in the calm of the evening. Here too we 
drank tea, which now was become an occasional 
banquet; and as we had it but seldom, it diffused a 
new joy, the preparations for it being made with no 
small share of bustle and ceremony. On these oc- 
casions, our two little ones always read for us, and 
they were regularly served after we had done. 
Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements, 
the girls sung to the guitar; and while they thus 
formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll 
down the sloping field, that was embellished with 
blue-bells and centaury, talk of our children with 
rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both 
health and harmony. 

In this manner we began to find that every situa 
tion in life may bring its own peculiar pleasures : 
every morning waked us to a repetition of toil j 
but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. 

It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holi- 
day, for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from 
labour that I had drawn out my family to our usual 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


45 


place of amusement, and our young musicians 
began their usual concert ; as we were thus en- 
gaged, Ave saw a stag » bound nimbly by, within 
about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and, 
by its panting, seemed pressed by the hunters. We 
had not much time to reflect upon the poor animal’s 
distress, when we perceived the dogs and horse- 
men come sweeping along at some distance behind, 
and making the very path it had taken. I was 
instantly for returning in with my family ; but either 
curiosity or surprize, or some more hidden motive, 
held my wife and daughters to their seats. The 
huntsman who rode foremost, passed us with great 
swiftness, followed by four or five persons more 
who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young gen- 
tleman, of a more genteel appearance than the rest, 
came forward, and for a while regarded us, in- 
stead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, and giv- 
ing his horse to a servant who attended, approach- 
ed us with a careless, superior air. He seemed to 
want no introduction, but was going to salute my 
daughters as one certain of a kind reception ; but 
they had early learnt the lesson of looking presump- 
tion out of countenance. Upon which he let us 
know that his name was Thornhill, and that he was 
the owner of the estate that lay for some extent 
round us. He again, therefore, offered to salute the 
female part of the family ; and such was the power 
offortune and fine clothes, that he found no second 
repulse. As his address, though confident, was 
easy, we soon became more familiar : and perceiv 
ing musical instruments lying near, he begged to 


46 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


he favouretl with a song. As I did not approve of 
such disproportioned acquaintance, I winked upon 
my daughters in order to prevent their compliance ; 

^ hut my hint was counteracted by one from their mo- 
ther ; so that with a cheerful air they gave us a fa- 
vourite song of Dryden’s. Mr. Thornhill seemed 
highly delighted vvith their performance and choice, 
and then took up the guitar himself. He played but 
very indifferently ; however, my eldest daughter re- 
paid his former applause with interest, and assured 
him that his tones were louder than even those of 
her master. At this compliment he bowed, which 
she returned with a curtsey ; he praised her taste, 
and she commended his understanding; an age 
could not have made them better acquanted ; while 
the fond mother too, equally happy, insisted upon 
her landlord’s stepping in, and taking a glass of her 
gooseberry. The whole family seemed earnest to 
please him ; my girls attempted to entertain him 
with topics they thought most modern ; while Mo- . 
ses, on the contrary, gave him a question or two 
from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction 
of '•being laughed at: my little ones were no less 
busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All 
my endeavours could scarce keep their dirty fingers 
from handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes 
and lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see 
wh'at was there. At the approach of evening, he 
' took leave ; but not till he had requested permission 
to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, 
we most readily agreed to. 

As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


47 


Oil the conduct of the day. She was of opinion that 
it was a most fortunate hit ; for she h'ad known even 
stranger things than that brought to bear. She 
hoped again to see the day in which we might hold 
up our heads with the best of them; and concluded, 
she protested she could see no reason why the two 
Miss Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and her 
children get none. As the last argument was di- 
rected to me, I protested I could see no i^eason for it 
neither ; nor why Mrs. Simpkins got the ten thou- 
sand pounds prize in the lottery, and we sat down 
with a blank. ‘ I protest, Charles,’ cried my wife, 
‘ this is the way you always damp my girls and me 
when we were in spirits : — ^Tell me. Soph, my dear, 
what do you think of our new visitor ? Don’t you 
think he seemed to be good-natured ?’ — ‘ Immensely 
so indeed, mama,’ replied she; ‘I think he has a 
great deal to say upon every thing, and is never at 
a loss ; and the more trifling the subject, the more he 
has to say.’ — ‘ Yes,’ cried Olivia, ‘ he is well enough 
-for a man ; but for my part, I don’t much like him’, 
he is so extremely impudent and familiar ; but on 
the guitar he is shocking.’ These two last speeches 
J interpreted by contraries. I found by this, that 
Sophia internally despised, as much as Olivia secret- 
ly admired him. ‘ Whatever may be your opinions 
of him, my children,’ cried I , ‘ to confess a truth, he 
has not prepossessed me in his favour. Dispro por- 
tioned friendships ever terminate in disgust ; and I 
thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seem- 
ed perfectly sensible of the distance between us. 
Ii.et us keep to companions of our own rank. There 


4G THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ' 

is no character more contemptible than a man that i 
is a fortune-hunter ; and I can see no reason why , 
fortune-hunting women should not be contemptible 
too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible, if his i 
views are honourable ; but if they be otherwise, I j 
should shudder but to think of that! It is true,, I 
have no apprehensions from the conduct of my |j 
children, but I think there are some from his cha- i 
racter.’ I would have proceeded, but for the inter- 
ruption of a servant from the squire, who, with his 
compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise : 
to dine with us some days after. This well-timed 
present pleaded more powerfully in his favour than 
any thing' I had to say could obviate ; I therefore j 
continued silent, satisfied with just having pointed j 
out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to i 
avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever j 
guarded, is scarcely worth the centinel. , 


CHAP. VI. 

THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRE-SIDE. 

As we carried on the former dispute with some de- 
gree of warmth, in order to accommodate matters; 
it was universally agreed, that we should have a part 
of the venison for supper, and the girls undertook 
the task with alacrity. ‘ I am sorry,’ cried I, ‘ that 
we have no neighbour, or stranger, to take part in 
this good cheer ; feasts of this kind acquire a double 
- relish from hospitality.’ — ‘ Bless me,’ cried my wife, 
‘here comes our good friend, Mr. Burchell, that 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


49 


saved our Sophia, and that run you down fairly in 
the argument.’ — ‘Confute me in argument, child!* 
cried I, ‘ you mistake there, my dear ; I believe there 
are but few that can do that ; I never dispute your 
abilities at making a goose-pie, and I beg you’ll leave 
argument to me.’ As I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell 
entered the house, and was welcomed by the family 
ji who shook him heartily by the hand, while little 
J3ick officiously reached him a chair. 

I was pleased with the poor man’s friendship, for 
two reasons ; because I knew that he wanted mine, 
and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was able. 
He was known in our neighbourhood by the charac- 
ter of the poor gentleman that would do no' good 
when he was young, though he was not yet thirty. 
He would at intervals talk witli great good sense'; 
but in general he was fondest of the company of 
children, whom he used to call harmless little men. 
He was famous, 1 found, for singing them ballads, 
and telling them stories ; and seldom went out with- 
out something in his pockets for them, a piece of 
gingerbread or a halfpenny whistle. He generally 
came for a few days into our neighbourhood once a 
year, and lived upon the neighbours’ hospitality. 
He sat down to supper among us, and my wife was 
not sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went 
round ; he sung us old songs, and gave the children 
the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the History 
of Patient Grizzle, the Adventures of Catskin, and 
then Fair Rosamond’s Bower. Our cock, which 
always crew at eleven, now tqid us it was time for 
I'epose ; but an unforeseen djfficulty started about i 


50 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD/ 


lodging the stranger; all our beds were already 
taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next 
alehouse. In this dilemma, little Dick offered him 
his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would let 
him lie with him. ‘And I,’ cried Bill, ‘will give 
Mr. Burchell my part, if my sisters will take me to 
their’s.’ — ‘ Well done, my good children,’ cried I, 
‘ hospitality is one of the first Christian duties.’ The 
beast retires to his shelter, and the bird flies to it’s 
nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge from 
his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this 
world was he who came to save it ; he never had a 
house, as if willing to see what hospitality was left 
remaining amongst us.’ — ‘ Deborah, my dear,’ cried I 
to my wife, ‘ give those boys a lump of sugar each 
and let Dick’s be the largest, because be spmke first.’ 

In the morning early, I called out my whole family 
to help at saving an after-growth of hay, and our 
guest offering his assistance, he was accepted 
among the number. Our labours went on lightly ; 
we turned the swath to the wind ; I went foremost> 
and the rest followed in due succession. I could 
not avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr. 
Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophia in her part 
of the task. When he had finished his own he 
would join in her’s, and enter into a close conversa- 
tion ; but I had too good an opinion of Sophia’s un- 
derstanding, and was too well convinced of her am- 
bition, to be under any uneasiness from a man of 
broken fortune. When we were finished for the 
day, Mr. Burchell was invited as on the night before : 
but he refused, as he was to lie that night at a 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


51 


neighbour’s, to whose cliild he was carrying a whis- 
tle. When gone, onr conversation at supper turned 
uix)n our late unfortunate guest. ‘ What a strong 
instance,’ said I, ‘ is that poor man of the miseries 
attending a youth of levity and extravagance ! He 
by no means wants sense, which only serves to ag- 
gravate his former folly. Poor, forlorn creature! 
where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that he 
could once inspire, and command ? gone, perhaps, 
to attend the bagnio pander, grown rich by his ex- 
travagance. They once praised him, and now they 
applaud the pander: their former raptures at his 
wit are now converted into sarcasms at his folly : he 
is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty ; for he has 
neither the ambition to be independent, nor the skill 
to be useful.’ Prompted perhaps by some secret 
reasons, I delivered this observation with too much 
acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. 
‘Whatsoever his former conduct may have been, 
papa, his circumstances should exempt him from 
censure now; his present indigence is a sufiicient 
punishment for former folly ; and I have heard my 
papa himself say, that we should never strike one 
unnecessary blow at a victim over whom Providence 
holds the scourge of its resentment.’ — ‘You are 
right, Sophy,’ cried my son Moses ; ‘ and one of the 
ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct, 
by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose 
skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stript oflf by 
another. Besides I don’t know if this poor man’s 
situation be so bad as my father w ould represent it^ 
We are not to judge of the feelings of others by 


52 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


what we might feel if in their place. However dark 
the habitation of the mole to onr eyes, yet the animal 
itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome. 
And to confess a truth, this man’s mind seems fitted 
to his station; for I never heard any one more 
sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed 
with you.’ This Avas said without the least design ; 
however, it excited a blush, which she strove to \ 
cover by an affected laugh ; assuring him, that she 
scarcely took any notice of what he said to her ; but 
that she believed he might once have been a very i 
fine gentleman. The readiness with which she un- 
dertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were , 
symptoms T did not internally approve ; but I re- 
pressed my suspicions. 

As we expected our landlord the next day, my 
wife went to make the venison pasty ; Moses sat 
reading while I taught the little ones ; my daughters 
seemed equally busy with the rest ; and I observed 
them for a good while cooking something over the 
fire. I at first supposed they were 'assisting their 
mother ; but little Dick informed me in a whisper, 
that they were making a wash for the face. Washes 
of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to; for I knew 
that, instead of mending the complexion, they spoil- 
ed it ; I therefore approached my chair by sly de- 
grees to the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it 
wanted mending, seemingly by accident, overturned 
the whole composition ; and it was too late to begin 
another. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


53 




CHAP. VII. 

A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED. THE DULLEST FELLOWS 
MAY LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO. 

When the morning arrived on which we were to 
entertain our young landlord, it may be easily sup- 
posed what provisions were exhausted to make an 
appearance. It may be also conjectured, that my 
wife and daughters expanded their gayest plumage 
on this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a cou- 
ple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. The servants 
who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next 
alehouse ; but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, 
insisted on entertaining them all ; for which, by the 
by, our family was pinched for three weeks after. 
As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us the day before, 
that he was making some proposals of marriage to 
Miss Wilmot, my son George’s former mistress, this 
a good deal damped the heartiness ofiiis reception ; 
but accident, in some measure, relieved our embar- 
rassment; for one of the company happening to 
mention her name, Mr. Thornhill observed, with an 
oath, that he never knew any thing more absurd 
than calling such a fright a beauty ; ‘For, strike me 
ugly,’ continued he, ‘ if I should not find as much 
pleasure in choosing my mistress by the information 
of a lamp under the clock of St. Dunstan’s.’ At this 
he laughed, and so did we : the jests of the rich are 
ever successful. Olivia too could not avoid whis- 
pering, loud enough to be heard, that he had an in- 
finite fund of humour. 


F3 


64 


THE VICAR OF 'vVAIvnFIELD. - 


. After dinner, T began with my usual toast, the 
church ; for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as 
lie said the church was the only mistress of his affec 
tions. .‘Come, tell us honestly, Frank,’ said the 
S juire, with his usual archness, ‘ suppose the church, 
your present mistress, dressed in lawn sleeves, on 
one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, 
on the other, which would you be for ?’ — ‘ For both, to 
be sure,’ cried the chaplain. — ‘ Right Frank,’ cried 
tlie squire ; ‘ for may this glass suffocate me, but a 
fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the creation. 
For what are tythes and tricks but an imposition, 
all a confounded imposture ? and I can prove it.’ — 
‘ 1 wish you would,’ cried my son Moses ; ‘ and I 
think,’ continued he, ‘ that I should be able to an- 
swer you.’ — ‘ Very well, Sir,’ cried the squire, who 
immediately smoked him, and winked on the rest 
of the company, to prepare us for the sport, ‘ if you 
are for a cool argument upon the subject, I am 
ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether 
are you for managing it analogically or dialogi- 
cally?’ — ‘I am for managing it rationally,’ cried 
Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. 
‘ Good again,’ cried the squire ; ‘ and, firstly, of the 
first, I hope you’ll not deny that whatever is, is ; if 
you don’t grant me that, I can go no further.’ — 
‘ Why,’ returned Moses, ‘ I think I may grant that, 
and make the best of it.’ — ‘ I hope too,’ returned the 
other, ‘ you will grant that a part is less than tbs 
w'hole.’— ‘ I grant that too,’ cried Moses, ‘ it is but 
Just and reasonable.’ ‘ I hope,’ cried the squire, ‘ you 
will not deny, that the three angles of a triangle are 


THE VICAft OF WAKEFIELD 


55 


equal to two right ones.’ — ‘ Nothing can be plainer,’ 
returned the other ; and. looked round him with his 
usual importance.’ — ‘Very well,’ cried the squire, 
speaking very quick ; ‘ the premises being thus set- 
tled, I proceed to observe, that the concatenation 
of self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal dupli- 
cate ratio, naturally produce a problematical dialo- 
gism, which in some measure proves that the essence 
of spirituality may be referred to the 'second predi- 
cable.’ — ‘ Hold, hold,’ cried the other, ‘ I deny that. 
I)o you think I can thus tamely submit to such 
heterodox doctrines ?’ — ‘ What,’ replied the squire, 
as if in a passion, ‘not submit. Answer me one 
plain question : Do you think Aristotle right, when 
lie says, that relatives are related T — ‘ Undoubtedly,’ 
replied the other. — ‘ If so, then,’ cried the squire, 

‘ answer me directly to what I propose : Whether do 
you judge the analytical investigation of the first 
part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or 
quoad minus and give me your reasons, I say> 
directly.’ — ‘ I protest,’ cried Moses, ‘ I don’t rightly 
comprehend the force of your reasoning ; but if it 
be reduced to one single proposition, I fancy it may 
then have an answer.’ — ‘ O, Sir,’ cried the squire, ‘ I 
am your most humble servant ; I find you want me 
to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No 
sir, there, I protest, you are too hard for me.’ This 
effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who 
sat the only dismal figure in a group of merry f^ces ; 
nor did he offer a single syllable more during the 
whole entertainment. 

But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a 


5G 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


very diiferent effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for i 
humour, though but a mere act of the memory. 
She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman ; 
Tind such as consider what powerful ingredients a 
good figure, fine clothes, and fortune, are in that 
character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, 
notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease 
and could expatiate upon the common topics of con- 
versation with fluency. It is not surprising then 
that such talents should win the affections of a girl, 
who by education was taught to value an appear- 
ance in herself, and consequently to set a value up- 
on it in another. 

Upon his departure, we again entered into a de- 
bate upon the merits of our young landlord. As he ' 
directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was | 
no longer doubted but that she was the object that ' 
induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to 
be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her 
brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah 
herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and 
exulted in her daughter’s victory as if it were her 
own. ‘ And now, my dear,’ cried she to me, ‘ I’ll 
fairly own, that it was I that instructed my girls to 
encourage our landlord’s addresses; I had always 
some ambition, and you now see that I was right ; 
for who knows how this may end ?’ — ‘ Aye, who 
knows that indeed ; answered I with a groan : ‘ for 
my part, I don’t much like it ; and I could have 
been better pleased with one that was poor and 
honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and 
infidelity ; for depend on’t, if he be what I suspect 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


57 


him, no free-thinker sliall ever have a child of mine.’ 
' ‘ Sure, father,’ cried Moses, ‘ you are too severe 
in this; for Heaven will never arraign him for what 
he thinks, but for what he does ; every man has a 
thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without his 
power to suppress : thinking freely of religion may 
be involuntary with this gentleman ; so that allow- 
ing his sentiments to be wrong, yet, as he is purely 
passive in his assent, he is no more to be blamed for 
his errors, than the governor of a city without walls 
for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invading 
enemy.’ 

‘ True, my son,’ cried I ; ‘ but if the governor in- 
vites the enemy there, he is justly culpable ; and 
such is always the case with those who embrace 
error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the 
proofs they see ; but in being blind to many of the 
proofs that offer ; so that, though our erroneous 
opinions be involuntary when formed, yet, as we 
have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in 
forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice> 
or contempt for our folly.’ 

My wife now kept up the conversation, though 
not the argument : she observed, that several very 
prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers, 
and made very good husbands ; and she knew some 
sensible girls that had skill enough to make con- 
verts of their spouses : ‘ And who knows, my dear,’ 
continued she, ‘ what Olivia may be able to do 
The girl has a great deal to say upon every subject, 
and to my knowledge is very well skilled in contro • 
versy. 


58 . 


THE YICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


‘ Why, my dear, what controversy can she have 
read cried I. ‘ It does not occur to me that I 
ever put such books into her hands : you certainly 
over-rate her merit.’ — ‘ Indeed, papa,’ replied Olivia, 
'• she does not ; I have read a great deal of contro- 
versy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum 
and Square ; the controversy between Robinson 
Crusoe and Friday, the savage ; and I am now em- 
ployed in reading the controversy in Religious 
Courtship.’ — ‘ Very well,’ cried I, ‘ that’s a good girl ; 
I find you are perfectly qualified for making con- 
verts; and so go help your mother to make the 
gooseberry-pie.’ 

CHAP. VIII. 

AN AMOUR, WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, 
YET MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH. 

The next morning we were again visited by Mr. 
Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be 
displeased with the frequency of his returns, but I 
could not refuse him my company and fire-side. It 
is true, his labour more than requited his entertain- 
ment : for he wrought amongst us with vigour, and 
either in the meadow or at the hay-rick, put himself 
foremost. Besides he had always something amus- 
ing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once so 
out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, 
laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose 
from an attachment he discovered to my daughter; 
he would in a jesting manner, call her his littlQ 






THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 'J 59 

mistress ; and when he bought each of the girls a 
set of ribands, her’s was the finest. I knew not' 
how, but he every day seemed to become more 
amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to 
assume the superior airs of wisdom. 

Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or ra- • 
ther reclined, round a. temperate repast, our cloth , 
spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheer-, 
fulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, 
two blackbirds answered each other from opposite 
hedges, the familiar red-breast came and picked the 
crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed 
^but the echo of tranquillity. ‘ I never sit thus.’ 
i says Sophia, ‘ but I think of the two lovers, so sweet- 
|ly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in 
f each other’s arms. There is something so pathetic 
[in the description, that I have read it a hundred 
' times with new rapture.’ — ‘ In my opinion,’ cried 
[my son, ‘the finest strokes in that description are 
much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. 
The Roman poet understands the use of contrast 
better, and upon that figure, artfully managed, all 
strength in the pathetic depends.’ ‘ It is remarkable,’ 
cried Mr. Burchell, ‘ that both the poets you mention 
have equally contributed to introduce a false taste 
into their respective countries, by loading all their 
lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them 
most easily imitated in their defects ; and English 
poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is 
nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant 
images, without plot or connexion ; a string of epi- 
thets that improve the sound without carrying on 


60 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


the sense. But perhaps, Madam, while I thus repre-|| 
hend others, you’ll think it just that I should give® 
them an opportunity to retaliate ; and indeed I have 
made this remark only to have an opportunity of in- ; 
troducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever 
be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from 
those I have mentioned. 


A ballad. 

‘ I'bRN, gentle hermit of the dale, 

‘ And guide iny lonely way 

* To where yon taper cheers the vale, 

‘ With hospitable ray. 

‘ For here forlorn and lost I tread, 

‘ With fainting steps and slow ; 

‘ Where wilds immeasurably spread 
‘ Seem length’ning as I go.’ 

* Forbear, my son,’ the hermit cries, 

‘ To tempt the dangerous gloom : 

‘ For yonder faithless phantom flies 
‘ To lure thee to thy doom. 

‘ Here, to the houseless child of want, 

* My door is open still ; 

* And though my portion is but scant, 

‘ I give it with good will. 

* Then turn to-night, and freely share 

‘ Whate’er my cell bestows ; 

* My rushy couch, and frugal fare, 

‘ My blessing and repose. 

* No flocks that range the valley free, 

‘ To slaughter I condemn ; 

* Taught by that Power that pities me, 

* I learn to pity them. 

* But from the mountain’s grassy side, 

* A guiltless feast I bring ; 

* A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 

And water from the spring. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


6 ] 


‘ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; 

* All earth-born cares are wrong; 

‘ Man wants but little here below, 

‘ Nor wants that little long.* 

Soft as the dew from heav’n descends, 
His gentle accents fell ; 

The modest stranger lowly bends. 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 
The lonely mansion lay; 

A refuge to the neighbouring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 
Requir’d a master’s care ; 

The wicket opening with a latch. 
Receiv’d the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest. 

The hermit trimm’d his little fire. 

And cheer’d his pensive guest ; 

And spread his vegetable store. 

And gaily press’d and smil’d j 
And skill’d in legendary lore. 

The ling’ring hours beguil’d. 

Around in sympathetic mirth. 

Its tricks the kitten tries ; 

The cricket chirrups in the hearth, . 
The crackling f^ot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To sooth the stranger’s wo ; 

For grief was heavy at his heart. 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spied. 

With answering care opprest ; 

‘And whence, unhappy youth,’ he cried, 

* The sorrows of thy breast ? 

* From better habitations spum’d, 

* Reluctant dost thou rove f 

‘ Or grieve for friendship unretum’d, 

‘ Or unregarded love ? 

G 




THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 




* Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 

‘ Are trifling, and decay ; 

* And those who prize the paltry things, 

‘ More trifling still than they. 

‘ And what is friendship but a name, 

‘ A charm that lulls to sleep ; 

‘ A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

- * But leaves the wretch to weep i 

* And love is still an emptier sound* 

‘ The modern fair one’s jest ; 

* On earth unseen, or only found,- 

‘ To warm the turtle’s nest. 

‘For. shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows' hush, 
‘ And spurn the sex,’ he said : , 

But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His lovelorn guest betray’d. 

Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise^' 

Swift mantling to the view. 

Like colours o’er the morning skies ; 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast. 

Alternate spread akirms : 

The lovely stranger stands confest » 

A maid, in all her charms. 

And, ‘ Ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 

‘ A wretch forlorni’ she cried : 

‘ Who^ feet unhallow’d thus intrude 
‘ Where heav’n andyoii reside; 

* But let a maid thy pity share, 

‘ W’'hom love has taught to stray ; 

‘ Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 

* Companion of her way. 

* My father liv’d beside the T3me, 

‘ A wealthy lord was he ; 

*Ahd all his wealth was mark’d as mine, 

* He had but only me. 

* To win me from his tender arms, 

‘ Unnumber’d suitors came ; 

* Who prais’d me for imputed charms,* 

‘ And felt or feign’d a flame. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

t 

* Each hour a mercenary crowd, 

‘ With richest protFers strove ; 

‘ Among the rest young Edwin bow’d, 

* But never talk’d of love. 

‘ In humble, simplest Jiabit clad, 

‘ Nor wealth nor power had he ; 

* Wisdom and worth were all he had, 

‘ But these were all to me. 

* The blossom opening to the day, 

‘ The detys of heaven 1‘efin’d, 

* Could nought of purity display, 

‘ To emulate his mind. 

The dew, the blossom on tlie tree, 

‘ With charms inconstant shine ; 

* Their charms were his ; but wo to me’ 

‘ Their constancy was mine. ' 

* For still I tried e?ich fickle art, 

‘ Importunate and vain : 

‘Andwhile his passion touch’d my heart 
‘ I triumph’d in his pain. 

* Till quite dejected with my scorn, 

* He left me to my pride, 

* And sought a solitude forlorn, 

‘ In secret, where he died. 

* But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 

* And well my life shall pay ; 

* I’ll seek the solitude he sought, 

* And stretch me where he lay. 

* And there forlorn, despairing hid, 

‘ I’ll lay me down and die. 

* ’Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

* And so for him will I.* 

* Forbid it, heav’n .” the hermit cried, 

And clasp’d her to his breast ; 

The wond’ring fair one turn’d to chide, 
’Twas Edwin’s self that prest ! 

* Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

‘ My charmer, turn to see 

* Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, . 

* Restor’d to love and thee. • 


64 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


* Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

* And every care resign ; 

* And shall we never, never part, 

* My life — my all that’s mine ! 

No, never from this hour to part, 

‘ We’ll live and love so true; 

* The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 

* Shall break thy Edwin’s too.’ 

While this ballad was reading Sophia seemed to 
mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But 
our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of 
a gun just by us, and immediately after, a man was 
seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the 
game he had killed. This sportsman was the 
squire’s chaplain, who had shot one of the black 
birds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud ». 
report, and so near, startled my daughters ; and 1 
could perceive that Sophia in the fright had thrown 
herself into Mr. Burchell’s arms for protection. 
The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for 
having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant 
of our being so near. He, therefore, sat down by 
my youngest daughter, and, sportsman like, offered 
her what he had killed that morning. She was 
going to refuse, but a private look from her mother 
soon induced her to correct the mistake ; and ac- 
cept his present, though with some reluctance. My 
wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper ; 
observing, that Sophy had made a conquest of the 
chaplain, as well as her sister had of the squire. I 
suspected, however, with more probability, that her 
affections were placed upon a different object. The 
chaplain’s errand was to inform us, that Mr. Thorn- 


the vicar of WAKEFIELD. ()5 

hill had provided music and refreshments, and in- 
tended that night giving the young ladies a ball by 
moonlight, on the grass-plot before our door. ‘ Nor 
can I deny,’ continued he, ‘ but I have an interest in 
being first to deliver this message, as I expect for 
my reward to be honoured with Miss Sophia’s hand 
as a partner.’ To this my girl replied, that she 
should have no objection, if she could do it with 
honour : ‘ But here,’ continued she, ‘ is a gentleman,’ 
looking at Mr. Burch ell, ‘ who has been my com- 
panion in the task for the day, and it is fit he should 
share in its amusements.’ Mr. Burchell returned 
her a compliment for her intentions ; but resigned 
her up to the chaplain, adding, that he was to go 
that night five miles, being invited to a harvest sup- 
per. His refusal appeared to me a little extraordi- 
nary ; nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as 
my youngest, could thus prefer a man of broken 
fortunes to one whose expectations were much 
greater. • But as men are most capable of distin- 
guishing merit in women, so the ladies often form 
the truest judgment of us. The two sexes seem 
placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished 
with different abilities, adanted for mutual inspec - 
tion. < 


€6 


THE VI‘^:AR of WAKEFIELD. 


’ CHAP. IX. 

TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. 

SUPERIOR FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERI- 
OR BREEDING. 

Mr. Burchell had scarcely taken leave, and Sophia 
consented to dance with the chaplain, when my 
little ones came running out to tell us that the squire 
was come, with a crowd of company. Upon our 
return, we found our landlord with a couple of 
under-gentlemen and two young ladies richly dress- 
ed, whom he introduced as women of very great 
distinction and fashion from town. We happened 
not to have chairs enough for the whole company ; 
but Mr. Thornhill immediately proposed that every 
gentleman should sit in a lady’s lap. This I posi- 
tively objected to, notwithstanding a look of disap- 
probation from my wife ; Moses was, therefore, 
dispatched to borrow a couple of chairs ; and, as 
we are in want of ladies to makeup a set of country 
dancers, the two gentlemen went with him in quest 
of a couple of partners. Chairs and partners were 
soon provided. The gentlemen returned with my 
neighbour Flamborough’s rosy daughters, flaunting 
with red top-knots. But an unlucky circumstance 
was not adverted to: though the Miss Flamboroughs 
were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, 
and understood the jig and the round-about to 
perfection : yet they were totally unacquainted with 
ooimtry-dances. This at first discomposed us ; 
however, after a little shoving and dragging, they 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


67 


at last went merrily on. Our music consisted of 
two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon 
shone bright : Mr. Thornhill and my eldest daugh- 
ter led up the ball, to the great delight of the spec- 
tators; for the neighbours, hearing what was going 
forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved 
tvith so much grace and vivacity, that my wife could 
not avoid discovering the pride of her heart, by as- 
suring me, that though the little chit did ifso* clever- 
ly, all the steps were stolen from herself. The 
ladies of the town strove hard to be equally easy, 
but without success; they swam, sprawled, lan- 
guished, and frisked ; but all would not do ; the 
gazers indeed owned that it was fine ; but neighbour 
Flamborough observed, that Miss Livy’s feet seemed 
as pat to the music as its echo. After the dance 
had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who 
were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to 
break up the ball. One of them, I thought, ex - 
pressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a very 
coarse manner, when she observed, that by the 
living jingo^ she was all of a muck of sweat Upon 
our return to the house, we found a very elegant 
cold supper, which Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be 
brought with him. The conversation at this time, 
was more reserved than before. The two ladies 
threw my girls quite into the shade ; for they would 
talk of nothing but high life, and high lived com- 
pany ; with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, 
taste, Shakspeare, and the musical glasses. ’Tis true 
they once or twice mortified us .sensibly by slipping 
cut an oath ; but that appeared to me as the surest 


C.3 >1^’ THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

symptom of their distinction (though I am since iD» | 
formed, that swearing is perfectly unfashionable); 
their finery, however, threw a veil over any gross- 
ness in their conversation. My daughters seemed i 
to regard their superior accomplishments with envy ; 
and whatever appeared amiss was ascribed to tip- j 
top quality breeding. But the condescension of the j 
ladies was still superior to their other accomplish- ! 
ments. One of them observed, that had Miss Olivia 
seen a little more of the world, it would greatly im- 
prove her.. To which the other added, that a single 
winter in town would make her little Sophia quite 
another thing. My wife warmly assented to both ; 
adding, that there was nothing she more ardently 
wished than to give her girls a single winter’s pol- 
ishing. To this I could not help replying, that their 
breeding was already supeVior to their fortune ; and 
that greater refinement would only serve to make 
their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for 
pleasures they had no right to possess. ‘ And what 
pleasures,’ cried Mr. Thornhill,’ ‘ do they not deserve 
to possess, who have so much in their power to 
bestow ? ‘ As for my part,’ continued he,‘ my fortune 
is pretty large ; love, liberty, and pleasure, are my 
maxims ; but curse me, if a settlement of half my 
estate could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it 
should be her’s ; and the only favour I would ask in 
return, would be to add myself’ to the benefit.’ I 
was not such a stranger to the w^orld as to be igno- 
rant that this was the fashionable cant to disguise 
the insolence of the basest proposal ; but I made an 
effort to suppress my resentment. ‘ Sir,’ cried T, ‘ the 




THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ' ^ 69 

family which you now condescend to favour with 
your company, has been bred with as nice a sense 
of honour as you ; any attempts to injure that may ' 
be attended with very dangerous consequences. 
Honour, Sir, is our only possession at present, and 
of that last treasure we must be particularly care- 
ful.* I was soon sorry for the warmth with which 
I had spoken this, when the young gentleman, grasp- 
ing my hand, swore he commended my spirit, though 
^ disapproved my suspicions. * As to your present 
hint,’ continued he, ‘ I protest nothing was farther 
♦"rom my heart than such a thought. No, by all 
that’s tempting, the virtue that will stand a regular 
siege was never to my taste ; for all my amours are 
carried by a coup de main' 

The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of 
the rest, seemed highly displeased with this last 
stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and 
serious dialogue upon virtue : in this my wife, the 
chaplain, and I, soon joined ; and the squire him- 
self was at last brought to confess a sense of sor- 
row for his former excesses. We talked of the 
pleasures of temperance, and of the sunshine in 
the mind unpoluted with guilt. I was so well 
pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond 
the usual time to be edified by so much good con- 
versation. Mr. Thornhill even went bej^ond me, 
and demanded if I had any objection to giving 
prayers. I joyfully embraced the proposal, and 
in this manner the night was passed in a most com- 
fortable way, till at length the- company began to 
think of returning. The ladies seemed very un- 


.70 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


willing to part with iny daughters ; for whom thej" 
had conceived a particular affection, and joined 
in a request to have |:he pleasure of their company 
ihorne. 

The squire seconded the proposal, and my wife 
added her entreaties ; the girls too looked upon me 
as if they wished to go. In this perplexity, I made 
two or three excuses, which my daughters as rea- 
dily removed ; so that at last I was obliged to give 
a peremptory refusal ; for which we had nothing 
but sullen looks and short answers the whole (fty 


ensuing. 


' CHAP. X. 

THE FAMILY ENDEAVOURS TO CpPE WITH THEIR 
BETTERS. THE MISERIES OF THE POOR WHEN 
THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUM- 
STANCES. , 

I NOW began to find that all my long and painful 
lectures upon temperance, simplicity, and content- 
ment, were entirely disregarded. The distinctions 
Jately paid us by our betters awakened that pride 
Avhich I had laid asleep, but not removed. Our 
windows again, as formerly, were filled with washes 
for the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an 
enemy to the skin without doors, and the fire as a 
spoiler of the complexion within. My wife observ- 
ed, that rising too early would hurt her daughter’s 
eye’s, that working after dinner would redden their 
noses, and she convinced me that the hands never 


I'HE VICAFw OF WAKEFIELfif. 

looked so white as when they did nothing. Instead, 
threfore, of finishing George’s shirts, We now had 
them new-modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing 
upon catgut. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their 
former gay companions, were cast off as mean ac- 
quaintance, and the whole conversation now fell 
upon high life and high-lived company, with pictures, 
taste, Shakspeare, and the musical glasses. 

But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune- 
telling gypsey come to raise us into perfect sublimity. 
The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than my girls 
came running to nri'e for a shilling a piece, to cross 
her hand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired 
of being always wisef and could not help gratifying 
their request, because I loved to see them happy, 
I gave each of them a shilling ; though, for the 
honour of the family, it must be observed, that they 
never went without money themselves, as my wife 
always generously let them have a guinea each, to 
^ keep in their pockets ; but with strict injunctions, 
never to change it. After they had been closeted 
up with the fortune-teller for some time, I knew by 
tlieir looks, upon their returning, that they had been 
promised something great. ‘Well, my girls, how 
have you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-tel- 
ler given thee a penny-worth ?’ — ‘ I protest, papa,’ 
says the girl, ‘ I believe she deals with somebody 
that’s not right ; for she positively declared, that I 
am to be married to a squire in less than a twelve- 
month !’ — ‘ Well, now, Sophy, my child,’ said I, ‘ and 
•what sort of a husband are you to have ?’ — ‘ Sir.’ 
replied she, ‘ 1 am to have a lord soon after my sistt^ 


72 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELO. 


Las married the squire.’ — ‘ How,’ cried I, ‘ is that 
all you are to have for your two shillings ! Only a 
lord and a squire for two shillings ! — You fools, I 
could have promised you a prince and a nabob for 
half the money.’ 

This curiosity of their’s, however, was attended 
with very serious effects ; we now began to think 
ourselves designed by the stars for something ex- 
alted, and already anticipated our future grandeur. 

It has been a thousand times observed, and I must 
observe it once more, that the hours we pass with 
happy prospects in view, are more pleasing than 
those crowned with fruition. In the first case, we 
cook the dish to our own appetite; in the latter, 
nature cooks it for us. It is iraposible to repeat the 
train of agreeable reveries we called up for our en- 
tertainment. We looked upon our fortunes as once 
more rising ; and as the w^hole parish asserted, that 
the squire was in love with my daughter, she was 
actually so with him ; for they persuaded her into 
the passion. In this agreeable interval, my wife had 
the most lucky dreams in the world, which she took 
care to tell us every morning with great solemnity 
and exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross- 
bones, the sign of an approaching wedding ; at 
another time she imagined her daughters’ pockets 
filled with farthings, a certain sign they would 
shortly be stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had 
their omens ; they felt strange kisses on their lips ; 
they saw rings in the candle ; purses bounced from 
the fire, and true love-knots lurked in the bottom of 
every lea-cup. 


tHE VICAR OF V/AKEFIELD. 73 

Towards the end of the week, we received a card 
from the town ladies ; in which, with their compli- 
liients, they hoped to see all our family at church 
the Sunday following. All Saturday morning I 
could perceive, in consequence of this, my wife and 
daughters in close conference together, and now 
and then glahciug at me with looks that betrayed a 
latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions 
that some absurd proposal was preparing for ap- 
pearing with splendour the next day. In the even- 
ing they began their opperations in a very regular 
manner, and my wife undertook to conduct the 
siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she 
began thus : ‘ I fancy, Charles my dear, we shall have 
a great deal of good company at our church to- 
morrow.’ — ‘ Perhaps we may, my dear,’ returned I ; 
‘though you need be under no uneasiness about 
that, you shall have a sermon whether there be or 
not.’ — ‘That is What I expect,’ returned she ; ‘biit 
I think, my dear, we ought to appear there as de- 
cently as possible, for who knows what may hap- 
p'en ?’ — ‘Your precautions,’ replied I, ‘are highly 
commendable ; a decent behaviour ahd appearance 
at church, is what charms me. We should be de- 
vout and humble, cheerful and serene.’: — ‘Yes,’ 
cried she, ‘ I know that ; but I mean we should go 
there in, as proper a manner as possible, not alto' 
^ gether like the scrubs about us.’ — ‘You are (Juite 
right, rny dear,’ returned I, ‘and I was going to 
make the very same proposal. The proper manner 
of going is, to go there as early as possible, to have 
time *br meditation before the service begins.' •- 
H 


74 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELB. 


*Pb6o, oharles,’ interrupted she, ‘all that is very 
true ; but not what I would be at ; I mean, we 
should go there genteelly. You know the church 
is two miles off; and I protest I don’t like to see my 
daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed and 
red with walking, and looking for all the world as if 
they had been winners at a smock-race. Now my 
dear, my proposal is this — there are our two plough- 
horses, the colt that has been in our family these 
nine years, and his companion Blackberry, that has 
scarce done an earthly thing for this month past ; 
they are both grown fat and lazy ; why should they 
not do something as well as we ? and let me tell 
you, when Moses has trimmed them a little, they 
will cut a very tolerable figure.’ 

To this proposal T objected, that walking would 
be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry 
conveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the 
colt wanted a tail ; and they had never been broken 
to the rein, but had a hundred vicious tricks ; and 
that we had but one saddle and pillon in the whole 
house. All these objections, however, were over- 
ruled ; so that I was obliged to comply. The next 
morning, I perceived them not a little busy in col- 
lecting such materials as might be necessary for the 
expedition ; but, as I found it would be a business 
of time, I walked on to the church before, and they 
promised speedily to follow. I waited near an hour 
in the reading-desk for their arrival ; but not finding 
them come as V expected, I was obliged to begin, 
and went through the service, not without some 
uneasiness at finding them absent. This was im 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


75 


creased when all was finished, and no appearance 
of the family ; I therefore walked back by the 
horse-way, wliich was five miles round, though the 
foot-way was but two, and when got about half 
way home, perceived the procession marching slow- 
ly forward towards the church ; my son, my wife, 
and the two little ones, exalted upon one horse, and 
jny two daughters on the other. I demanded the 
cause of their delay; but I soon found by their looks 
they had met with a thousand misfortunes on the 
road : the horses had at first refused to move from 
tne door, till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat 
them forward for about two hundred yards with 
liis cudgel ; next the straps of my wife’s pillion 
broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair 
them before they could proceed ; after that, one of 
the horses took it in his head to stand still, and 
neither blows nor entreaties could prevail with him 
to proceed ; it was just recovering from this dismal 
situation .that I found them : but perceiving every 
thing safe, I own their present mortification did not 
much displease me, as it would give me many op- 
portunities of future triumph, and teach my daugh- 
ters more humility. 


JS ' THE VICAK OF WAKEFIELI;. 

-t . * ■ ' • ‘r. 

CHAP. XL 

THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR 
HEADS. 

Michaelmas-eve happening on the next day, we 
were invited to burn nuts, and play tricks at neigh- 
bour Flamborough’s. Our late mortifications had 
luunbled us a little, or it is probable we might have 
rejected such an invitation with contempt, how- 
ever, we'sufFered ourselves to.be happy; our honest 
neighbour’s goose and dumplings were fine ; and 
the Jamb’s wool, even in the opinion of my wife 
'who was a connoisseur, was excellent. It is true, 
his manner of telling stories was not quite so well ; 
they were very long and very dull, and all about 
himself, and we had laughed at them ten times be- 
fore ; however, we were kind enough to laugh at * 
them once more. 

Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always 
fond of seeing some innocent amusement going for- 
ward, and set the boys and girls to blindman’s buff. . 
My wife too was persuaded to join in the diversion, 
and it gave me pleasure to think she was not yet 
too old. In the mean time, my neighbour and I 
looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our 
own dexterity v/hen we were young. Hot cockles 
succeeded next, questions and commands followed 
that, and last of all, they sat down to hunt-the-slip- 
per. As every person may not be acquainted with 
this primaeval pastime, it may be necessary to ob- 
serve, that the company at this play plant themselves 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 77 

in a ring upon tlie ground, all except one, wlio stands 
in the middle, whose business it is to catch a shoe, 
which the company shove about under their hams 
from one to another, something like a weaver’s shut- 
tle. As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady who 
is up to face all the company at once, the great 
beauty af the play lies in hitting her a thump with 
the heel of the shoe on that side least capable of 
making defence. It was in this manner that my 
eldest daughter was hemmed in and thumped about, 
all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair play, with 
a voice that might deafen a ballad-singer; when 
confusion on confusion ! who should enter the room 
but our two great acquaintance from town. Lady 
Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilehnina Amelia 
Skeggs! Description would but beggar, therefore 
it is unnecessary to describe, this new mortification. 
Death ! to be seen by ladies of such high breeding 
in such vulgar attitudes ! Nothing better could en- 
sue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Plamborough’s 
})roposing. We seemed struck to the ground for 
some lime, as if actually petrified with amazement. 

The two ladies had been at our house to see us, 
and finding us from home, came after us hither, as 
they were uneasy to know what accident could 
have kept us from church the day before. Olivia 
undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered the 
whole in a summary way, only saying, ‘ We were 
thrown from our horses.’ At which account the 
ladies were greatly concerned ; but being told the 
family received no hurt, they were extremely glad ; 
but being informed that we v/ere almost killed by 
H3 


78 ^ THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

the fright, they were vastly sorry ; but hearing thu| 
we had a very good night, they were extremely glad 
again. Nothing could exceed their complaisance 
to my daughters : their professions the last evening 
were warm, but now they were ardent ; they pro- 
tested a desire of having a more lasting acquaint- 
ance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached to 
Olivia; Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs 
(I love to give the whole name) took a greater fancy 
to her sister. They supported the conversation be- 
tween themselves, w^hile my daughters sat silent, 
admiring their exalted breeding. But as‘ every 
reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high- 
lived dialogues, with anecdotes of lords, ladies, and 
knights of the garter, I must beg leave to give him 
the concluding part of the present conversation. 

‘ All that I know of the matter,’ cried Miss Skeggs, 
‘ is this, that it may be true, or it may not be true ; 
but this I can assure your ladyship, that the whole 
rout was in amazb ; his lordship turned all manner 
of colours, my lady fell into a swoon ; but Sir Tom- 
kyn, drawing his sword, swore he was her’s to the 
last drop of his blood.’ 

* Well,’ replied our peeress, ‘ this I can say, that 
the duchess never told me a syllable of the matter^ 
and I believe her grace would keep nothing a se- 
cret from me. This you may depend on as a fact, 
that the next morning my lord duke cried out three 
times to his valet-de-chambre, Jernigan, Jernigan, 
jemigan, bring me my garters.’ 

But previously, I should have mentioned the very 
impofite behaviour of Mr. Biirchell ; who, during 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


79 


this discourse, sat with his face turned to the fire, 
and at the conclusion of every sentence, would cry 
out Fudge ! an expression which displeased us all, 
and in some measure damped the rising spirit of 
the conversation. 

‘Besides, my dear Skeggs,’ continued our peeress 
there is nothing of this in the copy of verses that 
Dr. Burdock made upon the occasion.’ Fudge ! 

‘ I am surprised at that,’ cried Miss Skeggs ; ‘ for 
he seldom leaves any thing out, as he writes only for 
his own amusement. But can your ladyship favour 
me with a sight of them ?’ Fudge ! 

‘ My dear creature,’ replied our peeress, ‘do you 
think I carry such things about me ? Though they 
are very fine to be sure, and I think myself some- 
thing of a judge ; at least I know what pleases my- 
self. Indeed I was ever an admirer of all Dr. 
Burdock’s little pieces: for except what he does, 
and our dear Countess at Hanover-square, there’s 
nothing comes out but the most lowest stuff in na- 
ture ; not a bit of high life among them.’ Fudge ! 
} ‘Your ladyship should except,’ says t’other, 
* your own things in the Lady’s Magazine. I hope 
you’ll say th fere’s nothing low-lived there ? — But I 
suppose we are to have no more from that quarter.’ 
Fudge ! 

‘Why, my dear,’ says the lady, ‘you know my 
reader and companion has left me to be married to 
Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won’t suffer 
me to write myself, I have been for some time look- 
ing out for another. A proper person is no easy 
matter to find, and to be sure thirty pounds a year is 


80 


THE VICAR OF WAKCFIEED. 


a sniull stipend for a well-bred girl of character, 
that can read, write, and beliave in company ; as for 
the chits about town, there is no bearing them about 
one .’ — Fudge / 

‘ That I know, cried Miss Skeggs, ‘by experience ; 
for of the three companions I had this last half- 
year, one of them refused to do plain work an hour 
in the day ; another thought twenty-five guineas 
a-year too small a salary ; and I was obliged to send 
away the third, because I suspected an intrigue 
with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, 
virtue is worth any price ; but where is that to be 
found ?' Fudge ! 

My wife had been for a long time all attention to 
tins discourse ; but was particularly struck with the 
latter part of it. Thirty pounds and twenty-five 
guineas a year, made fifty-six pounds five shillings 
English money, all which was in a manner going a 
begging, and might easily be secured in the family. 
She for a moment studied my looks for approbation : 
and to own a truth, 1 was of opinion, that two such 
places would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, 
if the squire had any real affection for my eldest 
daughter, this would be the way to make her every 
way qualified for her fortune. My wife, therefore, 
was resolved that we should not be deprived of such 
advantages for want of assurance, and undertook 
to harangue for the family. ‘ J hope,’ cried she, 
‘your ladyships will pardon my present presump- 
tion. It is true, we have no right to pretend to such 
favours, but yet it is natural for me to wish putting 
my children forward in the world. And I will be 
bold to say, my two girls have had a pretty good 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


81 


^education, and capacity ; at least the country cant, 
show better ; they can read, write, and cast ac- 
counts ; they understand their needle, broad-stitch, 
cross and 'change, and all manner of plain work: 
they can pink, point, and frill ; and know some- 
thing of music ; they can do up small clothes, and 
work upon catgut; my eldest can cut paper, and 
my youngest has a very pretty manner of telling 
fortunes upon the cards.’ Fudge ! 

When she had delivered this pretty piece of elo- 
quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few 
minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and im- 
portance ; at last Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia 
Skeggs condescended to observe, ‘that the young 
ladies, from the opinion she could form of them, 
from so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for 
such employments ; but a thing of this kind. Ma- 
dam,’ cried she, addressing my spouse, ‘ requires 
a thorough ^examination into characters, and a 
more perfect knovdedge of each other. Not, Ma- 
dam,’ continued she, ‘ that I in the least suspect 
the young ladies’ virtue, prudence, and discretion ; 
but there is a form in these things. Madam, there is 
a form.’ Fudge ! 

My wife approved her suspicions very much, ob- 
serving, that she was very apt to be suspicious her- 
self ; but referred her to all the neighbours for a 
character; but this our peeress declined as unne- 
cessary, alleging that her cousin Thornhill’s re- 
commendation would be sufficient, and upon this 
rested our petition. 


82 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 

CHAP. xn. 

FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY 
OF WAKEFIELD. MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN 
MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALAMITIES. 

When we were returned home, the night was de- 
dicated to schemes of future conquest. Deborah 
exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of the 
two girls was likely to have the best place, and most 
opportunities of seeing good company. The only 
obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the 
squire’s recommendation ; but he had already shown 
us too many instances of his friendship to doubt of 
it now. Even in bed iny wife kept up the usual 
theme : ‘ Well, faith, my dear Cliaries, between 
ourselves, I think we have made an excellent day’s 
work of it.’ — ‘ Pretty well,’ cried I, not knowing 
what to say. — ‘ What, only pretty well !’ returned 
she. ‘I think it is very well. Suppose the girls 
should come to make acquaintances of taste in 
town ! This I am assured of, that London is the 
only place in the world for all manner of husbands. 
Besides, my dear, stranger things happen every 
day ; and as ladies of quality are so taken with my 
daughters, what will not men of quality be ? Entre 
nous, 1 protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly so 
very obliging. However, Miss Carolina Wilelraina 
Amelia Skeggs has my. warm heart. But yet, when 
they came to talk of places in town, you saw at 
once how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, don;t 
you think I did for my children there ? — ‘ Ay,’ re- 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. S3 

turned 1, not knowing well what to think of the 
matter, ‘ Heaven grant they may be both the better 
for it this day thrcfe months!’ This was one of 
those observations I made to impress my wife with 
an opinion of my sagacity ; for if the girls succeeded, 
then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; but if any thing 
unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked upon 
as a prophecy. All this conversation, however, was 
only preparatory to another scheme, and indeed I 
dreaded as much ; this was nothing less than, as we 
were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the 
world, it would be proper to sell the colt, which was 
grown old, at a neighbouring fair, and buy us a 
horse that would carry single or double upon an oc- 
casion, and make a pretty appearance at church, or 
upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly ; but it 
was as stoutly defended ; however, as I weakened, 
my antagonists gained strength, till at last it was 
resolved to part with him. 

As the fair happened on the following day, I had 
intentions of going myself : but my wife persuaded 
me that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail 
upon her to permit me from home. ‘ No, my dear,’ 
•said she, ‘ our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can 
buy and sell to very good advantage ; you know all 
our great bargains are of his purchasing. He al- 
ways stands out and higgles, and actually tires 
them, till he gets a bargain.’ 

As 1 had some opinion of my son’s prudence, I 
vras willing enough to intrust him with this com- 
mission ; and the next morning, I perceived his 
sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair ; 




C4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. , 

trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cock- 
ing his hat with pins. The J)usiness of the toilet 
being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing 
him mounted upon the colt, with a deal-box before 
him to bring home groceries in. He had on a coat 
made of that cloth they call thunder and lightniDg, 
which, though grown too short, was much too good 
to be thrown away ; his waistcoat was of gosling 
green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad 
black riband. We all followed him several paces 
from the door, bawling after him, ‘ Good luck, good 
luck,’ till we could see him no longer. 

He was scarce gone, when Mr. Thornhill’s butler 
came to congratulate us upon our good fortune, 
saying, that he overheard his young master mention 
our names with great commendation. 

Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. 
Another footman from the same family followed 
with a card for my daughters, importing that the 
two ladies had received such pleasing accounts from 
Mr. Thornhill of us all, that after a few previous 
inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. ‘ Ay,* 
cried my wife, ‘ I now see it is no easy matter to 
get into the families of the great ; buf when one 
once gets in, then, as Moses says, one may go to 
sleep.’ To this piece of humour, for she intended 
it for wit, my daughters assented with a loud laugh 
of pleasure. In short,’ such was her satisfaction 
at this message, that she actually put her hand^ in 
her poclcet, arid gave the messenger shven-pence 
halfpenny. 

This was to be our visiting day. The next tliaf 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


85 


came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair; 
he brought my little ones a pennyworth of gin- 
gerbread each, which niy wife undertook to keep 
for them, and give theni by letters at a time : he 
brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in 
which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or 
even money when they got it. My wife was usu- 
ally fond of a weasel-skin purse, as being the most 
lucky ; but this by the by. We had still a regard 
for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behaviour 
was in some measure displeasing ; nor could we 
now avoid communicating our happiness to him, 
and asking his advice ; although we seldom follow- 
ed advice, we were all ready enough to ask it. When 
lie read the note from the two ladies, he shook his 
head, and observed that an affair of this sort de- 
manded the utmost circumspection. This air of 
diffidence highly displeased my wife. ‘ I never 
doubted. Sir,’ cried she, ‘ your readiness to be against 
my daughters and me. You have more circumspec- 
tion than is wanted. However, I fancy when wo 
come to ask advice, we shall apply to persons who 
seem to have made use of it themselves.’ ‘ What- 
ever my own conduct may have been. Madam,’ re- 
plied he, ‘ is not the present question ; though, as I 
have made no use of advice myself, I should in 
conscience give it those that will.’ As I was appre- 
hensive this answer might draw on a repartee, 
making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, T changed 
the subject, by seeming to wonder what could keep 
our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost 
night-fall. ‘ Never mind our son,’ cried my wife } 


86 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


‘depend upon it he knows what he is about. Til 
warrant we’il never see him sell his hen on a rainy 
day. I have seen him buy such bargains as would 
amaze one. I’ll tell you a good story about that, 
that will make you split your sides with laughing. 
But as I live, yonder comes Moses without a horse, 
and the box at his back.’ 

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and 
sweating under the deal box, which he had strapt 
round his shoulders like a pedlar. ‘ Welcome, wel- 
come, Moses. Well, my boy, what have you brought 
us from the fair?’ — ‘I have brought you myself,’ 
cried Moses, ‘ with a sly look, and resting the box 
on the dresser. ‘ Ay, Moses,’ cried my wife, ‘ that 
we know ; but where is the horse P’ — ‘ I have sold 
him,’ cried Moses, ‘ for three pounds five shillings 
and two pence.’ — ‘ Well done, my good boy,’ return^ 
ed she, ‘ I knew you would touch them off. Be- 
tween ourselves, three pounds five shillings and two, 
pence is no bad day’s work. Come, let us have it 
then.’ — ‘ I have brought back no money,’ cried Moses 
again. ‘ I have laid it all out in a bargain, and here 
it is,’ pulling out a bundle from his breast: ‘here 
they are ; a groce of green spectacles, with silver 
rims and shagreen cases.’ — ‘ A groce of green spec- 
tacles !’’ repeated my wife in a faint voice. ‘And 
you have parted with the colt, and brought us back 
nothing but a groce of green paltry spectacles?’ 
‘ Dear mother,’ cried the boy, ‘ why won’t you listen 
to reason ? I had them a dead bargain, or I should not 
have bought them. The silver rims alone will sell 
tor double the money.’ — ‘ A fig for the silver rims,’ 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. * 87 

cried my wile in a passion : ‘ I dare swear they won’t 
soil for above half the money at the rate of broken 
silver, five shillings an ounce.’ — ‘ You need be under 
no uneasiness,’ cried I, ‘ about selling the rims, fo’* 
they are not worth six-pence, for I perceive they are 

only copper varnished over.’ ‘ What 1’ cried my 

wife, ‘not silver! the rims not silver!’ — ‘No,’ cried 
*1, ‘ no more silver than your saucepan.’ — ‘ And so,’ 
returned she, ‘ we have parted with the colt, and 
have only got a groce of green spectacles, with cop- 
per rims and shagreen cases ! A murrain take such 
trumpery. The blockead has been imposed upon, 
and should have known his company better.’ — 
* There, my dear,’ cried I, ‘you are wrong; he should 
not have known them at all.’ — ‘Marry, hang the 
idiot,’ returned she, ‘ to bring me such stuff; if I had 
them, I would throw them into the fire.’ — ‘ There 
again you are wrong, my dear,’ cried I ; ‘ for though 
they be copper, we will keep them by us, as copper 
spectacles, you know, are better than nothing.’ 

iif this time the unfortunate Moses was un- 
deceived. He now saw that he had indeed been 
imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing 
his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I 
therefore asked him the circumstances of his decep- 
tion. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the 
fair in search of another. A reverend looking man 
brought him to a tent, under pretence of having 
one^ to sell. ‘ Here,’ continued Moses, ‘ we met 
another man very well dressed, who desired to bor- 
row twenty pounds upon these, saying, that he 
wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third 


08 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELW. 


of the value. The first gentleman, who pretcnrled 
to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and 
cautioned me not to let so good an ofier pass. 1 sent 
for Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely 
as they did me, and so at last we were persuaded to 
buy the two groce between us.’ 


CHAP. XIII. 

MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY ; FOR 
HE HAS THE CONFIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE 
ADVICE. 

OuR family had now made several attempts to be 
fine ; but some unforeseen disaster demolished each 
as soon as projected. I endeavoured to take the 
advantage of every disappointment, to improve their 
good sense in proportion as they were frustrated in 
ambition. ‘You see, my children,’ cried I, ‘how 
little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the 
world, in coping with our betters. Such as are 
poor, and will associate with none but the rich, are 
hated by those they avoid, and despised by those 
they follow. Unequal combinations are always 
disadvantageous to the weaker side ; the rich having 
the pleasure, and the poor the inconveniences that 
result from them. But come, Dick, my boy, and 
repeat the fable you were reading to-day for the 
good of the company.’ 

‘ Once upon a time,’ cried the child, ‘ a giant and 
a dwarf were friends, and kept together. They 
made a bargain that tney never would forsake each 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 89 

Ollier, but go seek adventures. The first battle they 
fought was with two Saracens * and tiie dwarf, who 
was very courageous, dealt one of the champions a 
most angry blow. It did the Saracen but very little 
injury, who, lifting up his sword, fairly struck off 
the poor dwarf’s arm. He was now in a woful 
plight ; but the giant coming to his assistance, in a 
short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain, 
and the dwarf cut off the dead man’s head out of 
spite. They then travelled on to another adventure. 
This was against three bloody-minded satyrs, who 
were carrying away a damsel in distress. The 
dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before ; but 
for all that struck the first blow, which was returned 
by another that knocked out his eye ; but the giant 
was soon up with them, and, had they not fled> 
would certainly have killed them every one. They 
were all very joyful for this victory; and the damsel, 
who was relieved, fell in love with the giant, and 
married him. They now travelled far, and farther 
than I can tell, till they met with a company of rob- 
bers. The giant for the first time was foremost now ; 
but the dwarf was not far behind. The battle, was 
stout and long ; wherever the giant came, all fell 
before him ; but the dwarf h.ad like to have been 
killed more than once. At last the victory declared 
for the two adventurers ; but the dwarf lost his leg. 
The dwarf had now lost an arm, a leg, and an eye, 
while the giant was without a single wound. Upon 
which he cried out to his little companion, “My 
little • hero, this is glorious sport ; let us get one 
victory more, and then we shall have honour for 
12 


so 


TIIK ViCAK OF WAKEFIELD. 


ever.” — “No,” cries the dwarf, who by this time 
was grown wiser, “no, I declare off; I’ll fight 
no more ; for I find in every battle that you get all 
tlie honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon 
rue.” 

1 was going to moralize upon this fable, when our 
attention was called off to a warm dispute between 
my wife and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters’ in- 
tended expedition to town ; my wife very strenuously 
insisted upon the advantages that would result from 
it ; Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her 
with great ardour, and I stood neuter. His present 
dissuasions seemed but the second part of those 
which were received with so ill a grace in the 
morning; the dispute grew high, while poor De- 
borah, instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, 
and at last was obliged to take shelter from a defeat 
in clamour ; the conclusion of her harangue, how- 
ever, was highly displeasing to us all ; she knew, 
she said, of some who had their secret reasons for 
what they advised ; but for her part, she wished 
such to stay away from her house for the future. 
‘ Madam,’ cried Burchell, with looks of great com- 
posure, which tended to inflame her the more, ‘ as 
for secret reasons, you are right ; I have secret 
reasons, which I forbear to mention, because you 
are not able to answer those of which I make no 
secret ; but I find my visits here are become trouble- 
some ; I’ll take my leave therefore now, and perhaps 
come once more, to take a final farewell, when 
I am quitting the country.’ Thus saying, he took 
ui> his hat, nor could the attempts of Sophia, whoso 




THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


91 


looks seemed te upbraid his precipitancy, prevent 
his going. 

When gone, we all regarded each other for some 
minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew her- 
self to be the cause, strove to hide her concern with 
a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which I 
was willing to reprove. ‘How, woman,’ cried I 
to her, ‘ is it thus we treat strangers ? Is it thus we 
return their kindness ? Be assured, my dear, that 
these were the harshest words, and to me the most 
unpleasant that ever escaped your lips !’ — ‘ Why 
would he provoke me then ?’ replied she ; ‘ but I 
know the motives of his advice perfectly well. He 
would prevent my girls from going to town, that he 
may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter’s 
company here at home. But whatever happens, 
she shall choose better company than such low-liv’d 
fellows as he.’ — ‘ Low-liv’d, my dear, do you call 
him ?’ cried I, ‘ it is very possible we may mistake 
this man’s character ; for he seems, upon some oc- 
casions, the most finished gentleman I ever knew. 
Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you 
any secret instances of his attachment.^’ — ‘ His con- 
versation with me. Sir,’ replied my daughter, ‘ has 
ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. As to aught 
else ; no, never. Once indeed I remember to have 
heard him say, he never knew a woman who could 
find merit in a man that seemed poor.’-j-‘ Such, my 
dear,’ cried I, ‘ is the common cant of all the un- 
fortunate or idle ; but I hope you have been taught 
to judge properly of such men, and that it w ould be 
even madness to expect happiness from one who 




THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELP. 


i)2 


lias been so very liad an economist of bis ownl 


Your mother and I have now better prospects for 
you. The next winter, which you will probably 
spend in town, will give you opportunities of making 
a more prudent cl mice.’ 

What Sophia’s reflections were upon this occa- 
sion, 1 cannot pretend to determine ; but I was not 
displeased at the bottom, that we were rid of a 
guest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach 
of hospitality went to my conscience a little ; but I 
cpiickly silenced that monitor by two or three spe- 
cious reasons, which served to satisfy and reconcile 
me to myself. The pain which conscience gives the 
man who has already done wrong, is soon got over; 
conscience is a coward; and those faults it has not 
strength to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to 
accuse. 


CliAP. XIV. 




FRESH MORTIFICATIONS ; OR, A DEMONSTRATION 


THAT SEEMING CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS. 


The journey of my daughters to town was now 
resolved upon; Mr. Thornhill having kindly pro- 
mised to inspect their conduct himself, and inform 
ns by letter of their behaviour. But it was thought 
indispensably necessary that their appearance should 
eipial the greatness of their expectations, which 
could not be done without expense. We debated 
therefore in full council, what were the easiest 
methods of raising money, or, more properly speak- 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ^ 93 

ing, what we could most conveniently sell. The 
deliberation was soon finislfed ; it was found that 
our remaining horse was utterly useless for the 
plough without his companion, and equally unfit for 
the road, as wanting an eye ; it was therefore de- 
termined that we should dispose of him, for the 
purpose above mentioned, at the neighbouring fair ; 
and to prevent imposition, that I should go with 
him myself. — Though this was one of the first mer- 
cantile transactions of my life, yet I had no doubt of 
acquitting myself with reputation. The opinion a 
man forms of his own prudence is measured by 
that of the company he keeps; and as mine was 
mostly in the family way, I had conceived no un- 
favourable sentiments of my worldly wisdom. My 
wife, however, next morning, at parting, after I had 
got some paces from the door, called me back to 
advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes about 
me. 

I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, 
put my horse through all his paces ; but for some 
time had no bidders. At last a chapman approached, 
and after he had for a good while examined the 
horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he would 
have nothing to say to him; a second came up, but 
observing he had a spavin, declared he would not 
take him for the driving home ; a third perceived he 
had a windgall, and would bid no money ; a fourth 
knew by his eye that he had the hots ; a fifth wondered 
what a plague I could do at the fair with a blind, 
spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up 
for a dog-kennel. By this time I began to have a 


94 


THE VICAR JF WAKEFIELD. 


most hearty contempt for the poor animal myself, 
and was almost ashamed at the approach of every 
customer: for, though 1 did not entirely believe all 
the fellows told me; yet I reflected that the number 
of witnesses was a strong presumption they were 
right ; and St. Gregory, upon good works, professes 
himself to be of the same opinion. 

I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother 
clergyman, an old acquaintance, who had also bu- 
siness at the fair, came up, and shaking me by the 
hand, proposed adjourning to a public-house, and 
taking a glass of whatever we could get. I readily 
closed with the offer, and entering an ale-house, we 
were shown into a little back room, where there was 
only a venerable old man, who sat wholly intent 
over a large book, which he was reading. I never 
in my life saw a figure that prepossessed me more 
favourably ; his locks of silver gray venerably 
shaded his temples ; and his green old age seemed 
to be the result of health and benevolence. How- 
ever, his presence did not interrupt our conver- 
sation ; my friend and I discoursed on the various 
turns of fortune we had met; the Whistonian con 
troversy, my last pamphlet, the archdeacon’s reply, 
and the hard measure that was dealt me. But our 
attention was in a short time taken off by the ap- 
pearance of a youth, who, entering the room, re- 
spectfully said something softly to the old stranger* 
* Make no apologies, my child,’ said the old man ; 
‘ to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow, 
creatures ; take this, I wish it were more ; but five 
pounds will relieve your distress, and you are wel» 


TTIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELDr 95 

tome.’ The modest youtli shed tears of gratitude ; 
and yet his gratitude was scarcely equal to mine : I 
could have hugged the good old man in my arms, 
his benevolence pleased me so. He continued to 
read, and we resumed our conversation, until my 
companion, after some time, recollecting that he 
had business to transact in the fair, promised to 
be soon back ; adding, that he always desired to 
have as much of Dr. Primrose’s company as pos- 
sible. The old gentleman hearing my name men- 
tioned, seemed to look at me with attention for 
some time, and when my friend was gone, most 
respectfully demanded, if I was any way related to 
the great Primrose, that courageous monogomist, 
who had been the bulwark of the church. Never 
did my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that 
moment. ‘ Sir,’ cried I, ‘ the applause of so good 
a man as I am sure you are, adds to that happiness 
in my breast which your benevolence has already 
excited. You behold before you. Sir, that Dr. 
Primrose, the monogomist, whom you have been 
pleased to call great. You here see that unfor- 
tunate divine, who has so long, and, it would ill 
become me to say, successfully, fought against the 
deuterogamy of the age.’ — ‘ Sir,’ cried the stranger, 
struck with awe, ‘I fear I have been too familiar; 
but you’ll forgive my curiosity. Sir ; 1 beg par- 
don.’ — ‘ Sir,’ cried I, grasping his hand, ‘ you are 
so far from displeasing me by ‘^your familiarity, 
that I must beg you’ll accept my. friendship, as 
you already have my esteem.’ — ‘ Then with grati-. 
fude, I accept the offer,’ cried he, squeezing me 


96 


THE VlCAFx OF WAKEFIELD. 


by the haod, ‘ thou glorious pillar of unshaken 
orthodoxy ; and do I behold ’ I here inter- 

rupted what he w'as going to say ; for though as 
an author, I could digest no small share of flat- 
tery, yet now my modesty would permit no more. 
However, no lovers in romance ever cemented a 
more instantaneous friendship. We talked upoim 
several subjects : at first, I thought him rather de- 
vout than learned, and began to think he despised 
all human doctrines as dross ; yet, this noway 
lessened him in my esteem ; for I had for some time 
begun privately to harbour such an opinion myself; 
I therefore took occasion to observe, that the world 
in general began to be blameably indifferent as to 
doctrinal matters, and followed human speculations 
too much. ‘Ay, Sir,’ replied he, as if he had 
reserved all his learning for that moment, ‘ay. 
Sir, the w^orld is in its dotage ; and yet the cos- 
mogony, or creation of the wo.rld, has puzzled' 
philosophers of all ages. What a medley of opi- 
nions have they not broached upon the creation of 
the world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and 
Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted -it in vain. 
The latter has these words : Anachon ara kai ate- 
lutaion to pan^ which imply that all things have 
neither beginning nor end. Manetho also, who 
lived about the time of Nebuchadon Asser, Asser 
being a Syriac word, usually applied as a surname 
to the kings of that country, as Teglat Phael-Asser, 
Nabon-Asser, he, I say, formed a conjecture equally 
absurd ; for as Vre usually say, ek to btblion kuhemeteSy 
which implies that books will never teach the world : 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD,’ ^ 97 

60 he attempted to investigate — But, Sir, I ask 
pardon, I am straying from the question.’ That he 
actually was ; nor could I, for my life, see how the 
creation of the world had any thing to do with the 
business I was talking of ; but it was sufficient to 
show me that he was a man of letters, and I now 
reverenced him the more ; I was resolved therefore 
to bring him to the touchstone; but he was too 
mild and too gentle to contend for victory. When- 
ever I made any observation that looked like a chal- 
lenge to controversy, he would smile, shake his 
head, and say nothing ; by which I understood he 
could say much, if he thought proper. The subject, 
therefore, insensibly changed from the business of 
antiquity to that which brought us to the fair ; mine, 
I told him, was to sell a horse, and very luckily 
indeed, his was to buy one for one of his tenants ; 
ray horse was soon produced, and in fine we struck 
a bargain ; nothing now remained but to pay me, 
and he accordingly pulled out a thirty pound note, 
and bid me change it. Not being in a capacity of 
complying with his demand, he ordered his foot- 
man to be called up, who made his appearance in 
a very genteel livery. ‘ Here, Abraham,’ cried he, 
‘ go and get gold for this ; you’ll do it at neighbour 
Jackson’s, or any where.* While the fellow was 
gone, he entertained me with a pathetic harangue 
on the great scarcity of silver, v/hich I undertook 
to improve, by deploring also the great scarcity of 
gold ; so that by the time Abraham returned, wo 
had both agreed that money was never so hard to 
be come at as now. Abraham returned to inform 
K 


tHE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

Us, that he had been over the whole fair, and could 
not get change, though he had offered half a crown 
for doing it. This was a very great disappointment 
to us all ; but the old gentleman having paused a 
little, asked me if I knew one Solomon Flam- 
borough in my part of the country ; upon replying 
^that he was my next door neighbour, ‘ If that bfe 
the case then,’ returned he, ‘ I believe we shall deal. 
You shall have a draft upon him payable' at sight ; 
and let me tell you, he is as warm a man as any 
within five miles round him. Honest Solomon and 
I have been acquainted for many years together. I 
remember I always beat hiih at three jumps ; but 
he could hop upon one leg further than I.’ A 
draft upon my neighbour was to me the same as 
money; for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability ; 
the draft was signed, and put into my hands, and 
Mr. Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, 
and my horse, old Blockberry, trotted off very well 
pleased with each other. 

After a short interval, being left to reffection, I 
began to recollect that I had done wrong in taking 
a draft from a stranger, and so prudehtly resolved' 
upon following the purchaser, and having back my 
horse ; but this was now too late. I therefore made' 
directly homewards, resolving to gefthe draft chan- 
ged into money at my friend’s a!s fast as possible. I’ 
found my honest neighbour srfioking his pipe at his*" 
own door, and informing hini that I had a small bill 
upon him, he read it twice over. ‘You can read 
the name, I suppose,’ cried I, ‘ Ephraim Jenkinsqn.’ 

Yes,’ returned he, ‘ the name is written plain' 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


D9 


/enough, and I know th.e gentleman too, the greatest 
rascal under the canopy of heaven. This is the very 
same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was he not 
a venerable looking* man, with gray hair, and no 
flaps to his pocket holes ? And did he not talk a 
long string of learning about Greek, and cosmo- 
gony, and the world ?’ To this 1 replied with a 
groan. ‘ Ay,’ continued he, ‘ he has but that one 
piece of learning in the world, and he always talks 
it wherever he finds a scholar in company ; ‘ but I 
know the rogue, and will catch him yet.’ 

Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my 
greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife and 
daughters; no truant was ever more afraid of re- 
.turning to school, there to behold the master’s visage, 
than I was of going home ; I was determined, how- 
ever, to anticipate their fury, by first falling into a 
passion myself. 

But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no- 
way disposed for battle ; my wife and girls were 
all in tears, Mr. Thornhill having been there that 
day to inform them, that their journey to town was 
entirely over ; the two ladies, having heard reports 
of us frorn some malicious person about us, were 
that day set off for London : he could neither dis- 
cover the tendency, nor the author of these ; but 
whatever they might be, or whoever might have 
broached them, he continued to assure our family 
of his friendship and protection ; I found therefore, 
that they bore my disappointment with great 
resignation, as it was eclipsed in the greatness of 
their own ; but what perplexed us most was to think 


100 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


who could be so base as to asperse the character of 
a family so harmless as ours ; too humble to excite 
envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust. 

CHAP. XV. 

ALL MR. BURCHELL’s^ VILLANV AT ONCE DETECTED. 

THE FOLLY OF BEING OVER WISE. 

That evening and part of the following day were 
employed in fruitless attempts to discover our ene- 
mies ; scarce a family in the neighbourhood but in- 
curred our suspicions ; and each of us had reasons 
for our opinions best known to ourselves. As we 
were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, who 
had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case 
which he found on the green ; it was quickly known 
to belong to Mr. Burchell, with whom it had been 
seen ; and, upon examination, contained some hints 
upon different subjects ; but what particularly en- 
gaged our attention, was a sealed note, superscribed^ 
‘ The copy of a letter to be sent to the ladies at 
Thornhill Castle.’ It instantly occurred, that he 
was the base informer ; and we deliberated, whether 
the note should not be broken open ; I was against 
it ; but Sophia, who said she was sure that of all 
men, he would be the last to be guilty of so much 
baseness, insisted upon its being read ; in this she 
was seconded by the rest of the family ; and, at their 
Joint solicitation, I read as follows : 

‘ LADIES, 

f The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the 


THE VrCAR OF WAKEFIELD. 101 

^ jVersqTi from whom this comes ; and at least the 
‘ friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its being 
, ‘ seduced. I am informed for a truth, that you have 
‘ some intention of bringing two young ladies to 
‘ town, whom I have some knowledge of, under 
‘ the character of companions. As I would neither 
‘ have simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contami- 
‘ nated, I must offer it as my opinion, that the inr 
‘ propriety of such a step will be attended with dan- 
‘ gerous consequences. It has never been my way 
‘ to treat the infamous, or the lewd, with severity ; 
‘ nor should I now have taken this method of ex- 
‘ plaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim 
‘ at guilt; take therefore the admonition of a friend, 
‘ and seriously reflect on the Consequences of intro- 
‘ ducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace 
‘ and innocence have hitherto resided.’ 

Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed 
indeed something applicable to both sides in this 
letter, and its censures might as well be referred to 
those to whom it was written, as to us ; but the ma- 
licious meaning was obvious, and we went no far- 
ther. My wife had scarce patience to hear me to 
the end, but railed at the writer with unrestrained 
resentment; Olivia was equally severe ; and Sophia 
seemed perfectly amazed at his baseness ; as for my 
part, it seemed to me one of the vilest instances of 
tmprovoked ingratitude I had ever met with ; nor 
could I account for it in any other manner than by 
imputing it to his desire of detaining my youngest 
slaughter in the country, to have the more frequent 
ri^iportunities of an interview. In this manner we 


102 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


all sat ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when 
our other little boy came running in to tell us, that 
Mr. Burchell was approaching at the other end of 
the field. It is easier to conceive than describe the 
complicated sensations which are felt from the pain 
of a recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching 
vengeance : though our intentions were only to up- 
braid him with his ingratitude, yet it was resolved 
to do it in a manner that would be perfectly cutting ; 
for this purpose we agreed to meet him with our 
usual smiles, to chat in the beginning with more 
than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little, and 
then, in the midst of the flattering calm, to burst 
upon him like an earthquake, and overwhelm him 
with the sense of his own baseness. This being re- 
solved upon, my wife undertook to manage the busi- 
ness herself, as she really had some talents for such 
an undertaking. We saw him approach ; he en- 
tered, drew a chair, and sat down. ‘ A very fine 
day, Mr. Burchell.’ — ‘ A very fine day, doctor ; though 
I fancy we shall have some rain, by the shooting of 
my corns.’ — ‘ The shooting of your horns,’ cried my 
wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon 
for being fond of a joke. ‘Dear madam,’ replied 
he, ‘ I pardon you with all my heart ; for I protest I 
should not have thought it a joke, had you not told 
me.’— ‘ Perhaps not. Sir,’ cried my wife, winking at 
us ; ‘ and yet I dare say you can tell us how many 
jokes go to an ounce.* — ‘ I fancy. Madam,’ returned 
Burchell, ‘ you have been reading a jest-book this 
morning; that ounce of jokes is so very good a 
conceit ; and yet, Madam. I had rather see half an 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


103 


ounce of understanding.’ — ‘ I believe you might,* 
cried my wife, still smiling at us, though the laugh 
was against her ; ‘ and yet I have seen some men 
pretend to understanding that have very little.’ — 
‘ And no doubt,’ replied her antagonist, ‘ you have 
known ladies set up for wits that had none.’ I 
quickly began to find, that my wife was likely to gain 
but little at this business ; so I resolved to treat him 
in a style of more severity myself. ‘ Both wit and 
understanding,’ cried I, * are trifles without integrity ; 
it is that which gives value to every character ; the 
jgnorant peasant without fault, is greater than the 
philosopher with many ; for what is genius or cour- 
age without a heart ? 

‘ An honest man’s the noblest work of God.* 

‘ I always held that hackneyed maj^im of Pope,* 
returned Mr. Burchell, ‘ as very unworthy a man of 
genius, and a base desertion of his own superiority. 
As the reputation of books is raised, not by their 
freedom from defect, but the greatness of their beau- 
ties, so should that of men be prized, not from their 
exemption from fault, but the size of those virtues 
they are possessed of; the scholar may want pru- 
dence, the statesman may have pride, and the cham- 
pion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to these the low 
mechanic, who laboriously plods on through life 
without censure or applause.^ We might as well 
prefer the tame correct paintings of > the Flemish 
school, to the error eous, but sublime animations of 
the Roman penciji- 

‘ Sir,’ replied I, ‘ your present observation is just, 


i04 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

when there are shining virtues and minute defects ? 
but when it appears that great vices are opposed in 
the same mind to as extroardinary virtues, such a 
character deserves contempt.’ 

‘ Perhaps,’ cried he, ‘ there may be some such 
monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to 
great virtues ; yet, in my progress through life, I 
never yet found one instance of their existence ; on 
the contraryj I have ever perceived, that where the 
mind was capacious, the affections were good ; and, 
indeed, Providence seems kindly our friend in this 
particular, thus to debilitate the understanding where 
the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where 
there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to 
extend even to other animals : the little vermin race 
are ever treacherous, cruel, and cowardly ; whilst 
those endowed with strength and power are gene- 
rous, brave, and gentle.’ 

‘ These observations sound well,’ returned 1, ‘ and 
yet it would be easy this moment to point out a 
man,’ and I fixed my eye stedfastly upon him, ‘whose 
head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay e^ 
sir,’ continued I, raising my voice, ‘ and I am glad 
to have this opportunity of detecting him in the midst 
of his fancied security. Do you know this. Sir, — this 
pocket-book?’— ‘Yes, Sir,’ returned he, with a face 
of impenetrable assurance, ‘ that pocket-book is 
mine, and I am glad you have found it.’ — ‘ And do 
you know-,’ cried I, ‘ this letter? Nay, never falter, 
man ; but look me full in the face : I say, do you 
know this letter ? — ‘ That letter !’’ replied he ; ‘ yea, 
it was I that wrote that letter.’—* And how coidd 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


105 


you,’ said 1, ‘so basely, so ungratefully presume 
to write this letter ? — ‘ And how came you,’ re[)lieu 
he, with looks of unparalleled effrontry, ‘so basely 
to presume to break open this letter ? Don’t you 
know, now, I could hang you all for this ? All that 
I have to do, is to swear at the next justice’s, that 
you have been guilty of breaking open the lock of 
iny pocket-book, and so hang you all up at this 
door.’ This piece of unexpected insolence raised 
me to such a jpitch that I could scarce govern my 
passion. ‘ Ungrateful wretch, be gone : and no 
longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness. Be 
gone ! and never let me see thee again : go from my 
door : and the only punishment I wish thee is an 
alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tor- 
mentor.’ So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, 
which he took up with a smile, and shutting the 
clasps, with the utmost composure, left us quite as- 
tonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife 
was particularly enraged that nothing could make 
him angry, or make him seem ashamed of his vil- 
lianies. ‘ My dear,’ cried I, willing to calm those 
passions which had been raised too high among us, 
* we arc not to be surprised that bad men want 
shame ; they only blush at being detected in doing 
good, but glory in their vices. 

‘ Guilt and Shame’ (says the allegory) were at first 
companions, and in the beginning of their journey 
inseparably kept together ; but their union was soon 
found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both; 
Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame 
often betriiyed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. Af- 


;^0C> T THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 

consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walketj 
lorward alone, to overtake Fate, that went before 
in the shape of an executioner; but Shame, being 
naturally timorous, returned back to keep company 
with Virtue, which in the beginning of their jour- 
ney, they had left behind. — Thus, my children, after 
men have travelled through a few stages in vice, 
Shame forsakes them,^nd returns back to wait upon 
the few virtues they have still remaining.’ 


CHAP. XVI. 

THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED BY STILL 
GREATER. 

Whatever might have been Sophia’s sensations, 
the rest of the family were easily consoled for Mr, 
Burchell’s absence by the company of our landlord, 
whose visits now became more frequent and longer. 
Though he had been disappointed in procuring my 
daughters the amusements of the town, as be de- 
signed, he took every opportunity of supplying them 
with those little recreations which our retirement 
would admit of. He usually came in the morning ; 
and while my son and I followed our occupations 
abroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused 
them by describing the town, with every part of 
which he was particularly acquainted. He could 
repeat all the observations that were retailed in the 
atmosphere of the play-houses, and had all the good 
things of the high wits by rote long before they made 


•THE VICAR oP v/aR'efielcX' fOY 

tfleir way into the jest-books. The intervals between' 
conversation were employed in teaching my daugh- 
ters piquet ; or sometimes in setting my two little 
ones to box, or to make them sharpe, as he called it ; 
but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law, in 
some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. 
It must be owned that my wife laid a thousand 
Schemes to entrap him ; Or, to speak it more ten- 
tlerly, used every art to magnify the merit of her 
daughter. If the cakes at tea eat short and crisp, 
they were made by Olivia ; if the gooseberry-wine 
was well knit, the gooseberries were of her gather- 
ing ; it was her fingers which gave the pickles their 
peculiar green ; and in the composition of a pud- 
ding, it was her judgement that mixed the ingredi- 
ents. Then the poor woman would sometimes tell 
the squire, that she thought him and Olivia ex- 
. tremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to 
I see which was the tallest. These instances of cun- 
I riing, which she thought impenetrable, yet which 
every body saw through, were very pleasing to our 
benefactor, who gave every day some new proofs of 
his passion, which, though they had not arisen to 
I proposals of marriage, yet wc thought fell but very 
( little short of it ; and . his slowness was sometimes 
I attributed to native bashfulhess, and sometimes to 
I liis fear of offending his uncle. An occurrence, 
I however, which happened soon after, put it beyond 
I a doubt, that he designed to become one of our 
family ; my wife even regarded it as an absolute 
promise. ' 

My wife and ' daughters happening to return af 


105 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELH. 

visit at neighbour Flamborough’s, found that fa* 
mily had lately got their pictures drawn by a lim* 
ner, who travelled the country, and took likenesses 
for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and 
our’s had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, 
our spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon 
us, and notwithstanding all I could say, and I said 
much, it was resolved that we should have ouf 
pictures done too. Having' therefore engaged the 
limner, (for what could I do ?) our next dehberation 
was to shew the superiority of our taste in the at- 
titudes. As for our neighbour’s family, there were 
seven of them, and they were drawn with seven 
oranges, a thing quite out of taste, no variety in 
life, no composition in the world. We desired to 
have something in a brighter style, and after many 
debates, at length came to a unanimous resolu- 
tion of being drawn together in one large histori- 
cal family-piece. This would be cheaper, since 
one frame would serve for all, and it would be infi- 
nitely more genteel, for all families of any taste 
were now drawn in the same manner. As we did 
not immediately recollect an historical subject to 
hit us, we were contented each with being drawn 
as independent historical figures. My wife desired 
to be represented as Venus, and the painter was 
requested not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her 
stomacher and hair ; her two little ones were to 
be as Cupids by her side ; while I in my gown and 
band, was to present her with my books on th© 
Whistonian controversy ; Olivia would be drawn 
as an Amazon silting upon a bank of flowers, dressed 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 

!n a green Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a 
whip in her hand ; Sophia was to be a shepherdess^ 
with as many sheep as the painter could put in for 
nothing ; and Moses was to be dressed out with a 
hat and white feather. 

Our taste so much pleased the squire, that he in- 
sisted on being put in as one of the family, in the 
character of Alexander the Great, at Olivia’s feet. 
This was considered by us all as an indication of his 
desire to be introduced into the family, nor could 
we refuse his request. The painter was therefore 
set to work, and, as he wrought with assiduity and 
expedition, in less than four days the whole was 
completed. The piece was large, and it must be 
owned, he did not spare his colours, for which my 
wife gave him great encomiums. We were all per- 
fectly satisfied with his performance; but an un- 
fortunate circumstance, which had not occurred 
till the picture was finished, now struck us with 
dismay. It was so very large that we had no place 
in the house to fix it. How we all came to disre- 
gard so material a point is inconceivable ; but cer- 
tain it is, we had all been greatly remiss. This 
picture, therefore, 'instead of gratifying our vanity, 
as we hoped, leaned, in a most mortifying manner, 
against the kitchen-wall, where the canvass was 
stretched and painted, much too large to be got 
through any of the doors, and the jest of all our 
neighbours. One compared it to Robinson Crusoe’s 
long-boat, too large to be removed ; another thought 
it more resembled a reel in a bottle ; some wondered 
L 


JIO THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

how It could be got ou^*, but still more were amazeil 
now it ever got in. 

But though it excited the ridicule of some, it ef- 
fectually raised more malicious suggestions in 
many. The squire’s portrait being found united 
with our’s, was an honour too great to escape envy. 
Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our 
expence, and our tranquility was continually dis- 
turbed by persons who came as friends to tell us 
what was said of us by enemies. These reports 
were always resented with becoming, spirit ; but 
scandal ever improves by opposition. 

We once again, therefore, entered into consulta- 
tion upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and 
at last came to a resolution which had too much 
cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It was this : 
as our principal object was to discover the honour of 
Mr. Thornhill’s addresses, my wife undertook 
to sound him, by pretending to ask his advice in 
the choice of a husband for her eldest daughter. 
If this was not found sufficient to induce him to 
a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him 
with a rival. To this last step, however, I would 
by no means give ray consent, till Olivia gave me 
the most solemn assurances that she would marry 
the person provided to rival him upon this occasion, 
if he did not prevent it by faking her himself. Such 
was the scheme laid, which though I did not stre- 
nuously oppose, I did not entirely approve. 

The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill 
came to sec us, my girls took care to be out of tbo' 


THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 


Ill 


WAy, in order to give their mamma an opportunity 
of putting her scheme in execution ; but they only 
retired to the next room from whence they could 
over-hear the whole conversation ; my wife artfully 
introduced it by observing that one of the Miss 
Flamboroughs was like to have a very good match 
of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the squire assenting, 
she proceeded to remark, that they who had warm 
fortunes were always sure of getting good hus- 
bands^ ‘But heaven help,’ continued she, ‘the girls 
who have none. What signifies beauty, Mr. Thorn 
hill ? or what signifies all the virtue and all the qua 
lifications in the world, in this age of self-interest ? 
It is not, what is she ? but what has she ? is all 
the cry?* 

‘ Madam,’ returned he, ‘ I highly approve the jus- 
tice, as well as the novelty of your remarks; and if I 
were a king, it should be otherwise. It should then, 
indeed, be fine times for the girls without fortunes . 
our two young ladies should be the first for whom I 
would provide.’ 

‘ Ah, sir !’ returned my wife, ‘ you are pleased to 
foe facetious ; but I wish I were a queen, and then I 
know where my eldest daughter should look for a 
husband. But now that you have put it into my 
head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can’t you recommend 
me a proper husband for her ; she is now nineteen 
years old, well grown, and well educated ; and, in 
my humble opinion, does not want for parts.’ 

‘ Madam,’ replied he, ‘ if I were to choose, I 
would find out a person possessed of every accom- 
plishment that can make an angel happy ; one with 


112 . 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity; such, Ma- 
dam, would be, in my opinion, the proper hus- 
band.’ — ‘ Ay, Sir,’ said she, ‘ but do you know of 
any such person ?’ — ‘ No, Madam,’ returned he ; 
‘ it is impossible to know any person that deserves 
to be her husband ; she’s too great a treasure for 
one man’s possession ; she’s a goddess ; upon my 
soul, I speak what I think ; she is an angel,’ — ‘ Ah ! 
Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl ; but 
we have been thinking of marrying her to one of 
your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and 
who wants a manager ; you know whom I mean. 
Farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, 
able to give her good bread, and who has several 
times made her proposals,’ (which was actually the 
case.) ‘ But, Sir,’ concluded she, ‘ I should be 
glad to have your approbation of our choice !’ — 
‘ How, Madam !’ replied he, ‘ my approbation ! 
my approbation of such a choice ! Never. What ! 
sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and goodness, 
to a creature insensible of the blessing! Excuse 
me, I can never approve of such a piece of injus- 
tice ! And I have my reasons.’ — ‘ Indeed, Sir ' 
cried Deborah, ‘if you have your reasons, that’s 
another affair ; but I should be glad to know those 

reasons.’ ‘ Excuse me. Madam,’ returned he, 

‘ they lie too deep for discovery ;’ (laying his hand 
upon his bosom) ‘ they remain buried, riveted 
here.’ 

After he was gone, upon a general consultation 
we could not tell what to make of these fine senti 
ments, Olivia considered them as instances of the 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 1 1 ‘5 

most exalted passion ; but I was not quite so san- 
guine : it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had 
more of love and matrimony in them; yet whatever 
they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the 
scheme of farmer Williams, who, from my daughter’s 
first appearance in the country, had paid her his ad- 
dresses. 


CHAP. XVII. 

SCARCELY ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POW- 
ER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION. 

As I only studied my child’s real happiness, the 
assiduity of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was 
in easy circumstances, prudent, and sincere : it 
required but very little encouragement to revive 
his former passion ; so that in an evening or two, 
ho and Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and sur- 
veyed each other for some time with looks of anger; 
but Williams owed his landlord no rent, and little 
regarded his indignation. Olivia, on her side, 
acted the coquet to perfection, if that migiit be 
called acting which was her real character, pre- 
tending to lavish all her tenderness upon her new’ 
lover: Mr. Thornhill appeared quite dejected at 
this preference, and, with a pensive air, took leave ; 
though I ow’n it puzzled me to find him in so much 
pain as he seemed to be, when he had it in his 
power so easily to remove the cause by declaring 
an honourable passion ; but whatever uneasiness 
L 2 


114 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


he seemed to endure, it could easily be perceived 
that Olivia’s anguish was much greater. After any 
of these interviews between her lovers, of which 
there were several, she usually retired to solitude, 
and there indulged her grief; it was in such a 
situation T found her one evening, after she had 
been for some time supporting a fictitious gayety. 
‘You now see, my child,’ said I, ‘that your con- 
fidetice in Mr. Thornhill’s passion was all a dream ; 
he permits the rivalry of another, every way his 
inferior, though he knows it lies in his power to 
secure you to himself by a candid declaration.’ — 
‘Yes, papa,’ returned she, ‘but he has his reasons 
for this delay ; I know he has : the sincerity of his 
looks and words convinces me of his real esteem. 
A short time, I hope, will discover the generosity 
of his sentiments, and convince you that my 
opinion of hirp has been more just than yours.’ — 
^Olivia, my darling,’, returned I, ‘every scheme 
that has been hitherto pursued to compel him to a 
declaration, has been proposed and planned by 
yourself, nor can you in the least say that I have 
constrained you. But you must not suppose, my 
dear, that I will ever be instrumental in suffering 
his honest rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed 
passion : whatever time you require to bring your 
fancied admirer to an explanation shall be granted ; 
but, at the expiration of that term, if he is still 
regardless, I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. 
Williams shall be rewarded for his fidelity; the 
character which I have hitherto supported in life 
demands this from me, and my tenderness as a 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 115 

parent shall never influence my integrity as a man , 
name then your day, let it be as distant as you 
think proper, and in the mean time take care to. 
let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on which 
I design delivering you up to another; if he 
really love you, his own good sense will readily 
suggest that there is but one method alone to pre- 
vent his losing you for ever.’ This proposal, which 
she could not avoid considering as perfectly just, 
was readily agreed to. She again renewed her 
most positive promise of marrying Mr. Williams, 
in case of the other’s insensibility ; and at the 
next opportunity, in Mr. Thornhill’s presence, 
that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with 
his rival. 

Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble 
Mr. Thornhill’s anxiety; but what Olivia really 
felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle 
between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite 
forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude 
was sought and spent in tears. One week passed 
away ; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to re- 
strain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was 
still assiduous, but not more open. On the third 
he discontinued his visits entirely ; and instead 
of my daughter testifying ^ an impatience, as T ex- 
pected, she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, 
which 1 looked upon as resignation. For my own 
part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that 
my child was going to be secured in a continuance 
of competence and peace, aud frequently applaud- 


nc 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


ed her resolution, in preferring happiness to os- 
tentation. 

It was within about four days of her intended 
nuptials, that my little family' at night were ga- 
thered round a charming fire, telling stories of the 
past, and laying schemes for the future ; busied 
in forming a thousand projects, and laughing at 
whatever folly came uppermost. ‘ Well, Moses,’ 
cried T, ‘ we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding 
in the family ; what is your opinion of matters 
and things in general ?’ ‘ My opinion, father, is, 

that all things go on very well ; and I was just 
now thinking, that when sister Livy is married to 
Farmer Williams, we shall then have the loan of his 
cider-press and brewing tubs for nothing.’ That 
we shall, Moses,’ cried I, ‘ and he will sing us Death 
and the Lady, to raise our spirits, into the bargain.’ 
‘ He has taught that song to our Dick,’ cried Moses ; 
‘ and I think he goes through it very prettily.’ — ‘ Does 
he so ?’ cried I, ‘ then let us have it : where is little 
Dick ? let him up with it boldly.’ ‘ My brother Dick,’ 
cried Bill, my youngest, ‘ is just gone out with sister 
Livy ; but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, 
and I’ll sing them to you, papa. Which song do 
you choose. The dying Swan, or the Elegy on the 
Death of a Mad DogV ‘The Elegy, child, by all 
means,’ said I ; ‘ I never heard that yet, and Deborah, 
my life, grief, you know, is dry ; let us have a bottle 
of the best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. 
I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late^ 
that, without an enlivening glass, I am sure this will 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


117 


overcome me. — And Sophy, love, take your guitar, 
thrum it with the boy a little.* 


•m ELEGY 


ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOO. 

GOOD people all, of every sort^ 

Give ear unto my song ; 

And if you find it wond’rous short, 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man. 

Of whom the world might say. 

That still a godly race he ran, 

When’er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had. 

To comfort friends and foes; 

The naked every day he clad. 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found. 

As many dogs there be. 

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends; , 

But when a pique began. 

The dog to gain some private ends. 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighb’ring streets, 

The wond’ring neighbours ran ; 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seem’d both sore and sad. 

To every Christian eye ; 

And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 4 

That show’d the rogues they lied ; 

The man recover’d of the bite, z 

The dog it was that died. 



IIS THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

* A very good boy, Bill, upon my word ; and an 
elegy that may truly be called tragical — Come, my 
children, here’s Bill’s health, and may he one day be 
a bishop !’ 

‘ With all my heart, cried my wife ; ‘ and if he 
but preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt 
of him. The most of his family by the mother’s 
side could sing a good song ; it was a common 
saying in our country, that the family of the Blen- 
kinsops could never look straight before them, nor 
the Hugginsons blow out a candle ; that there 
were none of the Grograms but could sing a song, 
or of the Marjorams but could tell a story.’ — ‘ How- 
ever that be,’ cried I, ‘ the most vulgar ballad of 
all generally pleases me better than the fine modern 
odes, and things that petrify us in a stanza; 
productions that we at once detest and praise. 
Put the glass to your brother, Moses, The great 
fault of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair 
for griefs that give the sensible part of mankind 
very little pain. A lady loses her muff, her fan, 
her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to 
versify the disaster.’ 

‘ That may be the mode,’ cried Moses, ‘ in sub- 
limer compositions; but the Ranelagh songs that 
come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast 
irr the same mould ; Collin meets Dolly, and they 
hold a dialogue together; he gives her a fairing to 
put in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay ; 
and then they go together to church, where they 
give good advice to young nymphs and swains to get 
married as fast as they can,’ 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.' 

1 

* Ahd very good advice too,’ cried I ; ‘ and! I 
am told there is not a place in the world where 
advice can he given with so much propriety as 
there ; for, as it persuades us to marry, it also 
furnishes us with a wife ; and surely that must be 
an excellent market, my boy, where we are told 
what we want, and supplied with it when want- 
ing.’ 

‘Yes, Sir,’ returned Moses, ‘ and I know but of 
two such markets for wives in Europe ; Ranelagh 
in England, and Fontarabia in Spain, The Spanish 
market is open once a year; but our English wives 
are saleable every night.’ 

‘You are right, my boy,’ cried his mother, 
‘ Old England is the only place in the world for 
husbands to get wives.’.--‘ And for wives to ma- 
nage their husbands,’ interrupted I. ‘ It is a pro- 
verb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the 
sea, all the ladies of the continent would come 
over to take pattern from ours: for there are no 
such wives in Europe as our own. But let us 
have one bottle more, Deborah, my life — and^ 
Moses, give us a good song. What thanks do we 
not owe to heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, 
health, and competence! I think myself happier 
now than the greatest monarch upon earth: He 
has no such fire-side, nor such pleasant faces 
about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now growing old ; 
but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. 
We are descended from ancestors that knew no 
stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race 
of children behind us. While we hye, they will 


1-20 


THE VICiR OF -VvAKEriELD. 


be oiir support and our pleasure here ; and when 
we die, they will transmit our honour untainted 
to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song : 
let us have a chorus. But where is my darling 
Olivia? that little cherub’s voice is always sweet- 
est in the concert.’ Just as I spoke, Dick came 
running in, ‘ O papa, papa, she is gone from us ; — 
she is gone from us; my sister Livy is gone from us 
for ever!’ — ‘Gone, child!’ — ‘Yes, she is gone off 
with two gentlemen in a post-chaise ; and one of 
them kissed her, and said he would die for her; and 
she cried very much, and was for coming back; but 
he persuaded her again, and she went into the chaise, 
and said, ‘ Oh ! what will my poor papa do, when 
he knows I am undone?’ — ‘Now, then,’ cried I, 
‘ my children, go and be miserable ; for we shall 
never enjoy one hour more. And, O ! may Hea- 
ven’s everlasting fury light upon him and his! 
Thus to rob me of my child ! And sure it wdll — for 
taking back my sweet innocent that I was leading 
up to Heaven. Such sincerity as my child was pos- 
sessed of! But all our earthly happiness is now 
over!* Go, my children, go and be miserable and 
infamous ; for my heart is broken within me !’ — 
‘ Father,’ cried my son, ‘ is this your fortitude ?’ — 
‘ Fortitude, child! Yes, he shall see that I have 
fortitude— Bring me my pistols — I’ll pursue the 
traitor — while he is on earth I’ll pursue him — Old 
as I am, he shall find that I can sting him yet — 
the villain — the perfidious villain !’ I had by this 
time reached down my pistols, when my poor wife,^ 
whose passions were Hot so strong as mine, caught 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


121 


Ine in her arms. ‘My dearest, dearest husband,* 
cried she, ‘ tlie Bible is the only weapon that is fit 
for your old hands now ; open that, my love, and 
read our anguish into patience, for she has vilely 
deceived us.* ‘ Indeed, Sir,’ resumed my son, 
after a pause, ‘ your rage is too violent and unbe- 
coming. You should be my mother’s comforter, 
and you increase her pain. It ill suited you and 
your reverend character thus to curse your great- 
est enemy ; you should not have cursed him, vil- 
lain as he is.’ — ‘ T did not curse him, child, did I 

* Indeed, Sir, you did ; you cursed him twice.* 

* Then may Heaven forgive me and him, if I did. 
And now, my son, I see it was more than human 
benevolence that first taught us to bless our enemies. 
Blessed be his holy name for all the good he 
hath given, and for all that he hath taken away. 
But it is not, it is not a small distress that can 
wring tears from these old eyes, that have not wept 
for so many years. My child ! to undo my darling! 
May confusion seize ! — Heaven forgive me ! — ^What 
am I about to say? — You may remember, my love, 
how good she was, and how charming, till this vile 
moment ; all her care was to make us happy. Had 
she but died ! — But she is gone, the honour of our 
family is contaminated, and I must look out for hap- 
piness in other worlds than here. — But, my child, 
you saw them go oflT ; perhaps he forced her away. 
If he forced her, she may yet be innocent.’ — ‘ Ah ! 
no. Sir,’ cried the child ; ‘ he only kissed her, and 
called her his angel, and she wept very much, and 
leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very fast, 

M 


122 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD#' 

‘ She’s an ungrateful creature,’ cried my wife, wha 
could scarcely speak for weeping, ‘ to use us thus :• 
she never had the least constraint put upon her affec- 
tions. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her 
parents without any provocation — thus to bring 
your gray hairs to the grave, and I mi?st shortly 
follow.’ 

In this manner that night, the first of our real 
misfortunes, was spent in the bitterness of com- 
plaint, and ill-supported sallies of enthusiam. I 
determined, however, to find out our betrayer, 
wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The 
next morning we missed our wretched child at 
breakfast, where she used to give life and cheer- 
fulness to us all. My wife as before attempted to 
ease her heart by reproaches. ‘ Never,’ cried she, 
‘shall that vilest stain of our family again darken 
these harmless doors. I will never call her daughter 
more. No, let the strumpet live with her vile 
seducer : she may bring us to shame, but she shall 
never more deceive us.’ 

‘ Wife,’ said I, ‘ do you talk thus hardly ; my 
detestation of her guilt is as great as yours ; but 
ever shall this house and this heart be open to a 
poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she 
returns from her transgression, the more welcome 
shall she be to me. For the first time, the very 
best may err ; art may persuade, and novelty 
spread out its charm. The first fault is the child 
of simplicity ; but every other, the offspring of 
guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be wel- 
come to this heart and this house, though stained 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


123 


with ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to 
the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on 
her bosom, if I find but repentance there. — My son, 
bring hither my Bible and my staff* ; I will pursue 
her, wherever she is ; and though I cannot save her 
from shame, I may prevent the continuance of her 
iniquity.* 


CHAP. XVIII 


THE PDESUIT OF A ^ATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST 


CHILD TO VIRTUE 


Though the child could not describe the gentle- 
man’s person who handed his sister into the post- 
chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our 
young landlord, whose character for such intrigues 
was but too well known. I therefore directed my 
steps towards Thornhill Castle, resolving to up- 
braid him, and, if possible, to bring back my 
daughter ; but before I had reached his seat, I was 
met by one of my parishioners, who said he saw 
a young lady resembling my daughter, in a post- 
chaise with a gentleman, whom, by the description, 
I could only guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that 
they drove very fast. This information, however, 
did by no means satisfy me ; I therefore went to 
the young squire’s, ^ and though it was yet early, 
insisted upon seeing him immediately; he soon 
appeared with the most open familiar air, and 
seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter’s elope- 
ment, protesting upon his honour that he was quite 


124 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


a Stranger lo it. I now therefore condemned my 
former suspicions, and could turn them only on 
Mr. Burchell, who, I recollected, had of late seve- 
ral private conferences with her; hut the appear- 
ance of another witness left me no room to doubt 
of his villany, who averred that he and my daugh- 
ter were actually gone towards the Wells, about 
thirty miles off, where there was a great deal of 
company. Being driven to that state of mind in 
which we are more ready to act precipitately than 
to reason right, I never debated with myself, whether 
these accounts might not have been given by per- 
sons purposely placed in my way, to mislead me, 
but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied 
deluder thither. 1 walked along with earnestness, 
and inquired of several by the way ; but received 
no accounts, till entering the town, I was met by 
a person on horseback, whom I remembered to 
have seen at the squire’s, and he assured me, 
that if I followed them to the races, which were 
but thirty miles farther, I might depend upon over- 
taking them ; for he had seen them dance there the 
night before, and the whole assembly seemed 
charmed with my daughter’s performance. Early 
the next day, I walked forward to the races, and 
about four in the afternoon, I came upon the course. 
The company made a very brilliant appearance, all 
earnestly employed in one pursuit, that of plea- 
sure ; how different from mine, that of reclaiming 
a lost child to virtue! 1 thought I perceived Mr. 
Burchell at some distance from me ; but as if he 
dreaded an interview, upon my approaching him^ 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 125 

he* mixed among a crowd, and I saw him no 
more. 

1 now reflected that it would be to no purpose 
to continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to 
return home to an innocent family, who wanted my 
assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and 
the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a 
fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I 
came otf the course. This was another unexpected 
stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distant 
from home : however, I retired to a little alehouse 
by the road-side; and in this place, the usual 
retreat of indigence and frugality, I laid me down 
patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I lan- 
guished here for near three weeks ; but at last my 
constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided 
with money to defray the expenses of my enter- 
tainment. It is possible the anxiety from this last 
circumstance alone might have brought on a re- 
lapse, had I not been supplied by a traveller who 
stopped to take a cursory refreshment. This person 
was no other than the philanthropic bookseller in 
St. Paul’s Churchyard, who has written so many 
little books for children: he called himself their 
friend ; but he was the friend of all mankind. He 
was no sooner alighted, but he was in haste to be 
gone, for he was ever on business of the utmost im- 
portance, and was at that time actually compiling 
materials for the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip. 
1 immediately recollected this good-natured man’s 
red pim])led face, for he had published for me 
against the Deuterogamists of the age, and from him 
M2 


126 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my return. 
Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, I 
resolved to return home by easy journeys of ten 
miles a day. 

]My health and usual^ tranquillity were almost 
restored, and I now condemned that pride which 
had made me refractory to the hand of correction. 
Man little knows what calamities are beyond his 
patience to bear, till he tries them; as in ascending 
the heights of ambition, which look bright from 
below, every step we arise shows us some new and 
gloomy prospect of hidden disappointment; so in 
our descent from the summits of pleasure, though 
the vale of misery below may appear at first dark 
and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive to 
its own amusement, finds, as we descend, some- 
thing to flatter and to please ; still as we approach, 
the darkest objects appear to brighten, and the 
mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situ- 
ation. 

1 now proceeded forward, and had walked about 
two hours, when I perceived, what appeared at a 
distance like a wagon, which T was resolved to 
overtake ; but when I came up with it, found it to be 
a strolling company’s cart, that was carrying their 
scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next 
village, where they were to exhibit. 

The cart was attended only by the person who 
drove it, and one of the company ; as the rest of 
the players were to follow the ensuing day. ‘ Gooil 
company upon the road,’ says the proverb, ‘ is the 
shortest cut.’ I therefore entered into conversation 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 127 

with the poor player; and as I once had some thea- 
trical powers myself, I descanted on such topics 
with my usual freedom : but as I was but little 
acquainted with the present state of the stage, I 
itemanded who were the present theatrical writers 
in vogue, who the Drydens and Otways of the day ? 
‘ I fancy. Sir,’ cried the player, ‘ few of our mo- 
dern dramatists would think themselves much 
honoured by being compared to the writers you 
mention. Dryden and Rowe’s manner. Sir, are 
quite out of fashion : our taste has gone back a 
whole century; Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and all 
the plays of Shakspeare, are the only things that 
go down.’ — ‘ How !’ cried I, ‘ is it possible the pre- 
sent age can be pleased with that antiquated dia- 
lect, that obsolete humour, those over-charged 
characters, which abound in the works you men- 
tion ?’ — ‘ Sir,’ returned my companion, ‘ the pub- 
lic think nothing about dialect, or humour, or 
character ; for that is none of their business ; 
they only go to be amused, and find themselves 
happy when they can enjoy a pantomime, under 
the sanction of Jonson’s or Shakspeare’s name.’ 
‘ So then, I suppose,’ cried I, ‘ that our modern 
dramatists are rather imitators of Shakspeare than 
nature.’ — ‘To say the truth,’' returned my com- 
jianion, ‘ I don’t know that they^ imitate any thing 
at all; nor indeed does the public require it of 
them. It is not the composition of the piece, but 
the number of starts and attitudes that may be 
introduced, that elicits applause. T have known 
a piece with not one jest in the whole, shrugged into 


123 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


popularity, and another saved by the poet’s throw 
ing in a fit of the gripes. No, Sir, the works of 
Congreve and Farquhar have too much wit in them 
for the present taste ; our modern dialect is much 
more natural.’ 

By this time the equipage of the strolling com- 
pany was arrived at the village ; which, it seems, 
had been apprised of our approach, and was come 
out to gaze at us, for my companion observed, that 
strollers always have more spectators without doors 
than within. I did not consider the impropriety of 
my being in such company, till I saw a mob ga- 
ther about me ; I therefore took shelter, as fast us 
possible, in the first ale-house that offered ; and 
being shown into the common room, was accosted 
by a very well dressed gentleman, who demanded, 
whether I was the real chaplain of the company, 
or whether it was only to be my masquerade charac- 
ter in the play. Upon my informing him of the truth, 
and that I did not belong in any sort to the company, 
he was condescending enough to desire me and the 
player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which 
he discussed' modern politics with great earnest- 
ness and interest. I set him down in my own 
mind for nothing less than a parliament-man at 
least ; but was almost confirmed in my conjectures, 
when, upon asking what there was in the house 
for supper, he insisted that the player and I should 
sup with him at his house ; with which request, 
after some entreaties, we were prevailed on to 
comply. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


129 


CHAP. XIX. 

THE description OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED 
WITH THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT, AND APPRE- 
HENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES. 

The house where we were to be entertained lying 
at a small distance from the village, our inviter 
observed, that as the coach was not ready, he 
would conduct us on foot, and we soon arrived at 
one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen 
in that part of the country. The apartment into 
which we were shown, was perfectly elegant and 
modern. He went to give orders for supper, while 
the player, with a wink, observed we were perfectly 
in luck. Our entertainer soon returned ; an ele- 
gant supper was brought in, two or three ladies in 
an easy dishabille were introduced, and the conver- 
sation began with some sprightliness. Politics, 
however, was the subject on which our entertainer 
chiefly expatiated ; for he asserted that liberty was 
at once his boast and his terror. After the cloth 
was removed, he asked me, if I had seen the last 
Monitor; to which re-plying in the negative, ‘What! 
nor the Auditor, I suppose ?’ cried he, ‘ Neither, 
Sir,’ returned T. ‘ That’s strange, very strange,* 
replied my entertainer. ‘Now, I read all the poli- 
tics that come out ; the Dail}*^, the Public, the 
Ledger, the Chronicle, the London Evening, the 
Whitehall Evening, the Seventeen Magazines, and 
the two Reviews ; and though they hate each other, 

I love them all. Liberty, Sir, liberty is the Bri- 


330 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


ton’s boast : and by all my coal-mines in Cornwall, 

I reverence its guardians.’ — ‘ Then it is to be 
hoped,’ cried I, ‘ you reverence the king.’ — ‘Yes,’ 
returned my entertainer, ‘ when he does what wo 
would have him ; but if he goes on as he has done 
of late. I’ll never trouble myself more with his 
matters. I say nothing; I think only; I could 
have directed some things better. I don’t think 
there has been a sufficient number of advisers ; 
he should advise with every person willing to give 
him advice, and then we should have things done 
in another guess manner.’ — ‘ I wish,’ cried I, ‘ that 
such intruding advisers were fixed in the pil- 
lory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist 
the weaker side of our constitution, that sacred 
power that has for some years been every day de- 
clining, and losing its due share of influence in the 
state. But these ignorants still continue the cry of { 
liberty, and if they have any weight, basely throw 
it into the subsiding scale.’ 

‘ How,’ cried one of the ladies, ‘ do I live to see 
one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, 
and a defender of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred gift 
of Heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons.’ 

‘ Can it be possible,’ cried our entertainer, ‘ that 
there should be any found at present, advocates 
for slavery ? Any who are for meanly giving up 
the privileges of Britons ? Can any. Sir, be so ab^ 
ject .5’ 

‘ No, Sir,’ replied I, ‘ I am for liberty, that attrL 
butc of gods ! Glorious liberty ! that theme of mo- 
dern declamation. I would have all men kings. I 


I’HE VICAR OF WAXEFIELDV 


131 


would be a king myself. We have all naturally an 
equal right to the throne; we are all originally 
equal. . This is my opinion, and was once the opi-* 
nion of a set of honest men who were called level- 
lers. They tried to erect themselves into a commu- 
nity, where all should be equally free ; but, alas ! 
it would never answer ; for there were some among 
them stronger, and some more cunning than others, 
and these became masters of the rest ; for as sure 
as your groom rides your horses, because he is a 
cunninger animal than they, so surely will the ani- 
mal that is cunninger or stronger than he, sit upon 
bis shoulders in turn. Since then it is entailed 
upon humanity to submit, and some are born to 
command, and others to obey, the question is, as- 
there must be tyrants, whether it is better to have 
them in the same house with us, or in the same vil- 
lage, or still farther off in the metropolis. Now, 
Sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the face of 
a tyrant, the farther he is removed from me, the 
better pleased am I. The generality of mankind 
also are of my way of thinking, and have unani- 
mously created one king, whose election at cmee 
diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny 
at the greatest distance from the greatest number 
of people. Now the great, who were tyrants them- 
selves before the election of one tyrant, are natu- 
rally averse to a power raised over them,'and whose 
weight must ever lean heaviest on the subordinate 
orders. It is the interest of the great, therefore, 
to diminish kingly power as much as possible; 
because, whatever they take from that, is natu- 


132 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

rally restored to themselves : and all they have ttf 
do in the state, is to undermine the single tyrant, 
by which they resume their primeval authority. 
Now the state may be so circumstanced, or its laws 
may be so disposed,, or its men of opulence so 
minded, as all to conspire in carrying on this busi- 
ness of undermining monarchy ; for, in the first 
place, if the circumstances of our state be such as 
to favour the accumulation of wealth, and make 
the opulent still more rich, this will increase their 
ambition. An accumulation of wealth, however,' 
must necessarily be the consequence, when, as at 
present, more riches flow in from external com- 
merce than arise from internal industry ; for ex- 
ternal commerce, can only be managed to advan- 
tage by the rich, and they have also at the same' 
time all the emoluments arising from internar 
industry, so that the rich, with us, have two sources 
of wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this 
reason, wealth in all commercial states is found to ac- 
cumulate ; and all such have hitherto in time become 
aristocratic al. Again, the very laws also of this 
country may contribute to the accumulation of 
wealth, as when by their means the natural ties 
that bind the rich and poor together are broken; 
and it is ordained, that the rich shall only marry 
with the rich; or when the learned are held un- 
qualified to serve their country as counsellors, 
merely from a defect of opulence ; and wealth is 
thus made the object of a wise man’s ambition ; by 
these means, I say, and such means as these, riches 
will accumulate. Now the possessor of accumula- 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


133 


ted wealth, when furnished with the necessaries and 
pleasures of life, has no other method to employ 
the superfluity of his fortune, but in purchasing 
power; that is, differently speaking, in making 
dependents, by purchasing the liberty of the needy 
or the venal, of men who are willing to bear the 
mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus 
each very opulent man generally gathers round him 
a circle of the poorest of the people ; and the polity 
abounding in accumulated wealth may be compared 
to a Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its 
own. Those, however, who are willing to move in 
a great man’s vortex, are only such as must be 
slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and 
whose education are adapted to servitude, and who 
know nothing of liberty, except the name. But 
there must still be a large number of the people 
without the sphere of the opulent man’s influence, 
namely, that order of men which subsists between 
the very rich and the very rabble ; those men who 
are possessed of- too large fortunes to submit to the 
neighbouring man in power, and yet are too poor to 
set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle order 
of mankind are generally to be found all the arts, 
wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is 
known to be the true preserver of freedom, and 
may be called the people. Now it may happen, 
that this middle order of mankind may lose all its 
influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner 
drowned in that of the rabble ; for if the fortune 
sufficient for qualifying a person at present to give 
his voice in* state affairs, be ten times less than was 
N 


l5*4 The vicar of wakefield’. 

judged sufficient upon forming a constitution, it 
is evident, that great numbers of the rabble vrill 
thus be introduced into the political system, and 
they, ever moving in the vortex of th6 great, will 
follow where greatness shall direct. In such a 
state, therefore, all that the middle order has left, 
is to preserve the prerogative and privileges of the 
one principal governor with the most sacred cir- 
cumspection ; for he divides the power of the rich, 
and calls off the great from falling \Vith tenfold 
weight on the middle order placed beneath them. 
The middle order may be Compared to a town, of 
which the opulent are forming the siege, and of 
which the governor from without is hastening the 
relief : while the besiegers are in dread of ah enemy 
over them, it is hut natural to offer the townsmen' 
the most specious terms ; to flatter them with sounds, 
and amuse them with privileges ; but if they once 
defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the 
town will be but a small defence to its inhabitants. 
What they may then expect may be' seen by turn- 
ing our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, Where' 
the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the 
law. I am then for, and would die for, monarchy, 
Sacred monarchy ; for if there be any thing sacred 
among men, it must be the anointed Sovereign 
of his people, and every diminution of his power, in 
war or j>eace, is an infringement upon the real' 
liberties of the subject. The sounds of liberty, pa- 
triotism, and Britons, have already done much ; it is 
to be hoped, that the true sons of freedom will pre- 
vent their ever doing more.- I ha\ e known many* 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 13 /> 

■o€ these pretended champions for liberty in my 
time, yet do I not remember one that was not in 
his lieart, and in his family, a tyrant,’ 

My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue 
beyond the rules of good breeding, but the impa- 
tience of my entertainer, who often strove to inter- 
rupt it, could he restrained no longer. ‘ What ?’ 
cried he, ‘ then T have been all this while entertain- 
ing a Jesuit in parson’s clothes : but by all the coal- 
mines of Cornwall, out he shall papk, if my name be 
Wilkinson.’ I now faund I had gone too far, and 
asked pardon for the warmth with which I had 
spoken. ‘ Pardon !’ returned he in a fury ; ^ I think 
such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What ! 
give up liberty, property, and, as the Gazetteer says, 
lie down to be saddled with wooden shoes ? Sir, I 
insist upon your marching out of this house imme- 
diately to prevent worse consequences. Sir, I insist 
upon it.’ I was going to repeat my remonstrances ; 
but just then we heard a footman’s rap at the door, 
and the two ladies cried out, ‘ As sure as death, there 
is our master and mistress come home.’ It seems 
my entertainer all this while was only the butler, 
who, in his master’s absence, had a mind to cut a 
figure, and be for a while the gentleman himself; 
end, to say the truth, he talked politics as well as 
most country gentlemen do. But nothing could now 
exceed my confusion, upon seeing the gentleman 
and his lady enter ; nor was their surprise, at finding 
such company and good cheer, less than ours. ‘ Gen- 
tlemen,’ cried the real master of the house, to me 
fi.nd my companion, ‘ my wife and I are your mo^t 


J3G THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

humble servants ; but I protest this is so unexpected 
a favour that we almost sink under the obligation.* 
However unexpected our company might be to them, 
theirs, I am sure, was still more so to us, and I was 
struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own ab- 
surdity, when, whom should I next see enter the room 
but my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was for- 
merly designed to be married to my son George, but 
whose match was broken off as already related. As 
soon as she saw me, she flew to my arms, with the 
utmost joy. ‘ My dear Sir,’ cried she, ‘ to what hap- 
py accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit ? 
I am sure my uncle and aunt will be in raptures 
when they find they have got the good Doctor Prim 
rose for their guest.’ Upon hearing my name, the old 
gentleman and lady very politely stepped up, and 
welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. Nor 
could they forbear smiling on being informed of the 
nature of my present visit ; but the unfortunate butler, 
whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, 
was, at my intercession, forgiven. 

Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house be- 
longed, now insisted upon having the pleasure of 
my stay for some days ; and as their niece, my 
charming pupil, whose mind, in some measure, had 
been formed under my own instructions, joined in 
their entreaties, I complied. That night I was 
shown to a magnificent chamber, and the next 
morning early. Miss Wilmot desired to walk with 
me in the garden, which was decorated in the mo- 
dern manner. After some time spent in pointing 
put the beauties of the place, she inquired, with 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


137 


seeming unconcern, when last I had heard from my 
son George. ‘ Alas ! Madam,’ cried I, ‘ he has 
now been near three years absent, without ever 
writing to his friends or me. Where he is, I know 
not; perhaps I shall never see him or happiness 
more. No, my dear Madam, we shall never more 
see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our 
fire-side at Wakefield. My little family are now 
dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not 
only want, but infamy upon us.’ The good-natured 
girl let fall a tear at this account ; but as I saw her 
possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a 
more minute detail of our sufferings. It was, how- 
ever, some consolation to me, to find that time had 
made no alteration in her affections, and that she 
had rejected several offers that had been made 
her since our leaving her part of the country. She 
led me round all the extensive improvements of the 
place, pointing to the several walks and arbours, 
and at the same time catching from every object a 
hint for some new question relative to my son. 
In this manner, we spent the forenoon, till the bell 
summoned us to dinner, where we found the ma- 
nager of the strolling company that I mentioned 
before, v^ho was come to dispose of tickets for the 
Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that evening ; 
the part of Horatio by a young gentleman who had 
never appeared on any stage. He seemed to be 
very warm in the praise of the new performer, and 
averred that he never saw any one who bid so 
lair for excellence. Acting, he observed, was not 
learned in a day ; ‘ but this gentleman,’ continued 
N2 


m 


thil vicar of Wakefield. 


!ie, ‘ seems born to tread the stage. His voice, 
his figure, and attitudes, are all admirable. We 
caught him up accidentally in our journey down.’ 
This account in some measure excited our curiosity ; 
and, at the entreaty of the ladi^, I was prevailed 
upon to accompany them to the play-house, which 
was no other than a barn. As the company v/ith 
which I went was incontestably the chief of the 
place, we were received with the greatest respect, 
and placed in the front seat of the theatre : where 
we sat for some time with no small impatience to 
see Horatio make his appearance. The new per- 
former advanced at last ; and let parents think of 
my sensations by their own, when I found it was 
my unfortunate son. He was going to begin ; 
when, turning his eyes upon the audience, he per- 
ceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once 
speechless and immoveable. 

The actors behind the scenes, who ascribed this 
pause to his natural timidity, attempted to encou- 
rage him ; but, instead of going on, he burst into a 
flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I don’t 
know what were my feelings on this occasion, for 
they succeeded with too much rapidity for de- 
scription; but I was soon awaked from this dis- 
agreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot ; who, pale, and 
with a trembling voice, desired me to conduct her 
back to her uncle’s. When got home, Mr. Arnold, 
who was as yet a stranger to our extraordinary 
behaviour, being informed that the new performer 
was my son, sent his coach, and an invitation for 
him ; and as he persisted in his refusal to appear 


THE VICAR OB' WAKEFIELD. 


■139 


again upon the stage, the players put another in his 
place, and we soon had him with us. Mr. Arnold 
gave him the kindest reception, and I received him 
Mith my usual transport, for I could never coun- 
terfeit a false resentment. * Miss Wilmot’s reception 
was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could 
perceive she acted a studied part : the tumult in her 
mind seemed not yet abated ; she said twenty giddy 
things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud 
at her own want of meaning ; at intervals she would 
take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in the 
consciousness of irresistible beauty ; and often would 
ask questions, without giving any manner of atten- 
tion to the answers. 


CHAP. XX. 

THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSU- 
ING NOVELTY, BUT LOSING CONTENT. 

After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered 
to send a couple of her footmen for my son’s baggage, 
which he at first seemed to decline ; but upon her 
pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, 
that a stick and a wallet were all the moveable 
things upon earth w^hich he could boast of. ‘ Why, 
ay, my son,’ cried I, ‘ you left me but poor ; and 
poor, I find, you are come back ; and yet I make no 
doubt, you have seen a great deal of the world.’ — 
‘ Yes, Sir,’ replied my son ; ‘ but travelling after 
Fortune is not the way to secure her ; and, indeed’ 
of late, I have desisted from the pursuit.’—* I fancy 


140 


TEt. vicar of Wakefield. 


Sir,’ .cried Mrs. Arnold, ‘ that the account of your 
adventures would be amusing ; the first part of them 
I have often heard from my niece ; but could the 
company prevail for the rest, it would be an 
additional obligation.’ — ‘ Madam,’ replied my son, 

‘ I promise you the pleasure you have in hearing, 
will not be half so great as my vanity in repeating 
them; and yet in the whole narrative I can scarcely 
promise you one adventure, as my account is rather 
of what I saw, than what I did. The first misfor- 
tune of my life, which you all know, was great ; 
but though it distressed, it could not sink me. No 
person ever had a better knack at hoping than I. 
The less kind I found Fortune at one time, the more 
I expected from her at another ; and being now at 
the bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might 
lift, but could not depress me. I proceeded, therefore, 
towards London in a fine morning, no way uneasy 
about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that 
carolled by the road ; and comforted myself with 
reflecting, that London was the mart where abi- 
lities of every kind were sure of meeting with dis- 
tinction and reward. 

‘ Upon my arrival in town, Sir, my first care was 
to deliver your letter of recommendation to our 
cousin, who was himself in little better circum- 
stances than 1. My first scheme, you know. Sir, 
was to be usher at an academy, and I asked hjs 
advice on the affair. Our cousin received the pro- 
posal with a true sardonic grin. “Ay,” cried he, 

this is, indeed, a very pretty career that has been 
chalked out for you. 1 have been an usher to a 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


141 


boarding-school myself ; and may I die by an 
anodyne necklace, but I had rather be an under- 
, turnkey in Newgate ! I was up early and late ; I 
was browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly 
face by the mistress, worried by the boys within^ 
and never permitted to stir out to meet civility 
abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school ? 
Let me examine you a little. ‘‘ Have you been bred 
apprentice to the business No. “ Then you 
won’t do for a school. Can you dress the boys* 
i.air.5” ' No. “Then you won’t do for a school. 
Have you had the smallpox.^” No. “Then you 
won’t do for a school. Gan you lie three in a bed.’* 
No. “ Then you will never do for a school. Have 
you got a good stomach ?” Yes. “ Then you will 
by no means do for a school. No, Sir: if you are 
for a genteel, easy profession, bind yourself seven 
\ ears as an apprentice to turn a cutler’s wheel ; 
but avoid a school by any means. Yet come,’* 
continued he, “ I see you are a lad of spirit and 
some learning ; what do you think of commencing 
author like me ? You have read in books, no doubt, 
of men of genius starving at the trade ; at present 
I’ll show you forty very dull fellows about town that 
live by it in opulence ; all honest jog-trot men, who 
I go on smoothly and dully, and write history and 
politics, and are praised ; men. Sir, who, had they 
been bred coblers, would all their lives have only 
mended shoes, but never made them.” 

‘ Finding that there was no great degree of gen- 
tility afiixed to the character of an usher, I resolved 
to accept his proposal ; and having the highest re- 


142 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 

©pect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of 
Orub-street with reverence. I thought it my glory 
to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod 
before me. I considered the goddess of this re- 
gion as the parent of excellence ; and however an 
intercourse with the world might give us good I 
©ense, the poverty she entailed I supposed to be 
the nurse of genius. Big with these reflections, 

I sat down, and finding that the best things remain- 
ed to be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write 
a book that should be wholly new. I therefore 
dressed up three paradoxes with some ingenuity* 
They were false, indeed, but they were new. The 
jewels of truth have been so often imported by 
others, that nothing was left for me to import, but 
some splendid things that at a distance looked every 
bit as well. Witness, you powers! what fancied 
importance sat perched upon my quill while I was 
writing ! The whole learned world, I made no doubt, 
would rise to oppose my systems ; but then I was 
prepared to oppose the whole learned world. Like 
the porcupine, I sat self-collected, with a quill point- 
ed against every opposer.’ 

‘ Well said, my boy,’ cried I ; ‘ and what subject 
did you treat upon.^^ I hope you did not pass over | 
the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt : go ! 
on. You published your paradoxes ; well, and what 
did the learned world say to your paradoxes ?’ 

‘ Sir,’ replied my son, ‘ the learned world said 
nothing to ray paradoxes ; nothing at all. Sir. Every 
man of themwas employed in praising his friends 
iiin;self, or .condemning his enernjes; ,ar,d uu- 


fHE VICAR OF WAKEFfELir.- 1-4^ 

fortunately, as I had neither, I suffered the crucilesl- 
mortification, neglect.’ 

‘ As I was meditating one day, in a coffee-house, ► 
on the fate of my paradoxes,* a little man hap- 
pening to enter the room, placed himself in the 
box before me ; and, after some preliminary dis- 
course, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a 
buridl*^ of proposals, begging me to subscribe to a 
new edition he was going to give the world of 
Propertius with notes. This demand necessarily 
produced a reply, that I had no' money ; and that 
concession led him to inquire into the nature of my- 
expectations. Finding that my expectations werd 
j,ust as great as my purse — “ I see,” cried he, “ you* 
are unacquainted with the town. I’ll teach you a 
part of it. Look at these proposals ; upon these 
very proposals I have subsisted very comfortably 
for twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns 
from his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or 
a dowager from her coumry-seat, I strike for a sub- 
scription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery^ 
and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If 
they subscribe readily the first time, I renew my 
request to beg a dedication fee ; if they let me have 
that, I smite them once more for engraving their 
coat of arms at the top. “ Thus,” continued he, “I 
live by vanity, and laugh at it ; but, between our- 
polves, I am now too weH known ; I should be' glad 
to borrow your face a bit : a nobleman of distinction 
has just returned from Italy ; my face is familiar to 
his porter ; but if you bring this copy of verses, rny 
Kfe for it you will succeed, and we divide the .spoiK” 
Jdless us, George,^’ cried I, ‘ and is this the 


144 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


employment of poets now? Do men of their ex- 
alted talents thus stoop to beggary ? Can they so far 
disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of 
praise for bread ?’ 

‘ O ! no, Sir,’ returned he ; ‘a true poet can never 
be so base ; for wherever there is genius, there is 
pride. The creatures T now describe are only 
beggars in rhyme ; the real poet, as he braves every 
hardship for fame, so is he equally a coward to 
, contempt, and none but those who are unworthy pro- 
tection, condescend to solicit it. 

‘Having a mind too proud to stoop to such in- 
dignities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a 
second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take 
a middle course, and write for bread. But I was 
disqualified for a profession, where mere industry 
alone was to ensure success. I could not suppress 
my lurking passion for applause ; but usually con * 
sumed that time in efforts after excellence which 
takes up but little room, when it should have been 
more advantageously employed in the diffusive pro- 
ductions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece 
would therefore come forth in the midst of periodi- 
cal publications, unnoticed and unknown. The pub- 
lic were more importantly employed, than to observe 
the easy simplicity of my style, or the harmony of 
my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to 
oblivion. My essays were hurried among the essays 
upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of 
a mad dog; while Philautus, Philalethes, Phile- 
lutheros, and Philanthropes, all wrote better, be- 
cause they wrote faster, than I. 

‘ Now, therefore, I began to associate with none 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


H5 


l)ut disappointed authors, like myself, who praised, 
deplored, and despised each other. The satisfaction 
we found in every celebrated writer’s attempts, was 
inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in 
another could please me. My unfortunate para- 
doxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. 
I could neither read nor write with satisfaction ; for 
excellence in another was my aversion, and writing 
was my trade. 

‘ In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I 
was one day sitting on a bench in St. James’s Park, 
a young gentleman of distinction, who had been my 
intimate acquaintance at the university, approached 
me. We saluted each other with some hesitation, 
he almost ashamed of being known to one who made 
so shabby an appearance, and 1 afraid of a re- 
pulse. But my suspicions soon vanished ; for Ned 
Thornhill was at the bottom a very good-natured 

fellow.’ 

% 

‘What did you say, George?’ interrupted I. 
‘Thornhill! was not that his name? It can cer- 
tainly be no other than my landlord .^’ — ‘Bless me !’ 
cried Mrs. Arnold, is Mr. ‘Thoridiill so near a 
neighbour of yours ? He has long been a friend 
in our family, and we expect a visit from him 
shortly.’ 

‘My friend’s first care,’ continued my son, ‘was 
to alter my appearanc^ by a very fine suit of his own 
clothes, and then I was admitted to his table upon 
the footing of half friend, half underling. My busi- 
ness was to attend hiinatauctions, to put him in spirits 
when he sat for his pictule, to take the left hand in 

O 


146 


THE VICAR OF WAXEFIELD. 


his chariot, when not filled by another, and to as- 
sist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when he had 
a mind for a frolic. Besides this, I had twenty other 
little employments in the family. I was to do many 
small things without bidding ; to carry the cork« 
screw ; to stand godfather to all the butler’s chil- 
dren ; to sing when I was bid ; to be never out of 
humour ; always to be humble ; and if I could, to be 
very happy. 

‘ In this honourable post, however, I was not with- 
out a rival. A captain of marines, who was formed 
for the place by nature, opposed me in my patron’s 
affections. His mother had been laundress to a 
man of quality, and thus he early acquired a taste 
for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman made 
it the study of his life to be acquainted with lords, 
though he was dismissed from several for his stupi- 
dity, yet he found many of them who were as dull 
as himself, that permitted his assiduities. As flattery 
was bis trade, he practised it with the easiest address 
imaginable ; but it came awkward and stiff from me ; 
and as every day my patron’s desire of flattery in 
creased, so every hour, being better acquainted with 
his defects, I became more unwilling to give it. 
Thus I was once more fairly going to give up the 
field to the captain, when my friend found occasion 
for my assistance. • This was nothing less than ta 
fight a duel for him with a gentleman whose sister 
it was pretended he had used ill. I readily complied 
W’ith his request ; and though I see you are displeas- 
ed at my conduct, yet, as it was a debt indispensably^ 
due to friendship, I could not refuse. 1 undertook 


THE VICAR OB' H'AKEB'IKLD. 


147 


ttic affair, disarmed my antagonist, and soon after 
had the pleasure of finding that the lady was only a 
woman of the town, and the fellow her bully and a 
sharper. This piece of service was repaid with the 
warmest professions of gratitude ; but as my friend 
was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other 
method of serving me, but by recommending me to 
his uncle. Sir William Thornhill, and another noble- 
man of great distinction, who enjoyed a post under 
government. When he was gone, my first care wag 
to carry his recommendatory letter to his uncle, a 
man whose character for every virtue was universal, 
yet just. 1 was received by his servants with the 
most hospitable smiles ; for the looks of the domestics 
ever transmit their master’s benevolence. Being 
shown into a grand apartment, where Sir William 
soon came to me, I delivered my message and letter, 
which he read, and after pausing some minutes—^ 
Pray, Sir,” cried he, “ inform me what you have 
done for my kinsman to deserve this warm recom- 
mendation. But I suppose. Sir, I guess your me- 
rits ; you have fought for him ; and so you would 
expect a reward from me for being the instrument 
of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present 
refusal may be some punishment for your guilt ; but 
still more, that it may be some inducement to your 
repentance.” The severity of this rebuke, T bore 
patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole 
expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the 
great man. As the doors of the nobility are almost 
ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in 
ijome sly petition, I found it no easy matter to gain 


14S 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


▼ 


adinittuuce. However, after bribing the servants 
with half iny worldly fortune, 1 was at last shown 
into a spacious apartment, my letter being pre- 
viously sent up for his lordship’s inspection. Du- 
ring this anxious interval, I had full time to look 
around me.. Every thing was grand, and of happy 
contrivance ; the paintings, the furniture, the gild- 
ings, petrified me with awe, and raised my idea of 
the owner. Ah ! thought L to myself,' how very 
great must the possessor of all these things l^e, 
who carries in his head the business of the state, 
and whose house displays half the wealth of the 
kingdom ; sure his genius must be unfathomable ! 
During these awful reflections, i heard a step come 
heavily forward. — Ah ! this is the great man him- 
self! — No, it was only a chamber-maid. — Another 
^oot was heard soon after. — This must be he ! 
No, it was only the great man’s valet-de-chambre. 
At last his lordship actually made his appearance. 
“ Are you,” cried he, “ the bearer of this here 
letter ?” I answered with a bow. “ I learn by this,’’ 
continued he, “as how that — ” But just at that 
instant a servant delivered him a card ; and, with- 
out taking further notice, he went out of the room, 
and left me to digest my own happiness at leisure, 
I saw no more of him, till told by a footman that his 
lordship was going to his coach at the door. Down 
I immediately followed, and joined my voice to 
that of three or four more, who came like me to 
petition for favours. His lordship, however, went 
too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot-door 
with large strides, when I hallooed out to know, if 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 149 

1 was to have any reply. He was by this time got 
in, and muttered an answer, half* of which I only 
heard, the other half was lost in the rattling of his 
chariot-wheels. I stood for some time with my 
neck stretched out, in the posture of one that w^as 
listening to catch the glorious sounds, till looking 
round me, I found myself alone at his lordship’s 
gate. 

‘ My patience,’ continued my son, ‘ was now 
quite exhausted; stung with the thousand indig- 
nities I had met with, I was willing to cast myself 
away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. I 
regarded myself as one of those vile things that 
nature designed should be thrown by into her 
lumber-room, there to perish in obscurity. I had 
still, however, half-a-guinea left, and of that I 
thought fortune herself should not deprive me ; but, 
in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to go in- 
stantly, and spend it while I had it, and then trust 
to occurrences for the rest. As I was going along 
with this resolution, it happened that Mr. Crispe’s 
office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome 
reception. In this office, Mr. Crispe kindly offers 
all his majesty’s subjects a generous promise of 
£30 a year, for which promise, all they give in 
return is their liberty for life, and permission to let 
him transport them to America as slaves. I was 
happy at finding a place where I could lose my fears 
in desperation, and entered this cell, for it had the 
appearance of one, with the devotion of a mo- 
nastic. Here I found a number of poor creatures, 
all in circumstances like myself, expecting the 
02 


150 


TI1£ VlCAll OF WAKEFIELD. 


arrival of 3Ir. Crispe, presenting a irue epitome 
of English impatience. Each untractable soul at 
variance with fortune, wreaked her injuries on her 
own heart ; but Mr. Crispe at last came down, and 
all our murmurs were hushed. He deigned to regard 
me with an air of peculiar approbation, and indeed 
he was the first man who, for a month past, talked 
to me with smiles. After a few questions, he found 
I was fit for every thing in the world. He paused 
awhile upon the properesi means of providing for 
me, and slapping his forehead, as if he had found it, 
assured me, that there was at that time an embassy 
talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the 
Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use his 
interest so get me made secretary. I knew in my 
own heart, the fellow lied, and yet his promise gave 
me pleasure, there was something so magnificent 
in the sound. I fairly therefore divided my half- 
guinea, one half of which went to be added to his 
thirty thousand pounds, and with the other half, I 
resolved to go to the next tavern, to be there more 
happy than he. 

‘ As I was going out with that resolution, I was 
met. at the door by the captain of the ship with whom 
I had formerly some little acquaintance, and ho 
agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch 
As I never chose to make a secret of my circum- 
stances, he assured me that I was on the very 
point of ruin, in listening to the office-keeper’s pro- 
mises : for that he only designed to sell me to the 
plantations. “ But,” continued he, “ 1 fancy you 
might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put 


THL VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 151 

into a very genteel way of bread. Take my advice. 

, My ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam-; what if 
you go in her as a passenger.^ The moment you 
land, all you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen 
English, and I warrant you’ll get pupils and 
money enough. “ I suppose you understand Eng- 
lish,” added he, “ hy this time, or the deuce is in 
U.’’ 1 confidently assured him of that ; hut ex- 

pressed a doubt, whether the Dutch would ho 
willing to learn English. He affirmed with an oatli 
that they were fond of it to distraction ; and upon 
that affirmation, I agreed with his proposal, and 
embarked the next day to teach the Dutch English 
in Holland. The wind was fair, our voyage short, 
and after having paid my passage with half my 
moveables, I found myself fallen as from the skies, a 
stranger in one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. 
In this situation, I was unwilling to let any time pass 
unemployed in teaching. I addressed myself there- 
fore CO two or three of those I met, whose appear- 
ance seemed most promising : but it was impossible 
; to make ourselves mutually understood. It was not 
till this very moment I recollected, that in order to 
teach* Dutchmen English, it was necessary that 
they should first teach me Dutch. How I came to 
overlook so obvious an objection, is to me amazing ; 
but certain it is, I overlooked it. 

‘ This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts 
of fairly shipping back to England again ; but 
dropping into company with an Irish student, who 
was returning from Louvain, our conversation 
turning upon tonics of literature (for, by the way, it 


lo2 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. \ 

may be observed, that I always forgot the meanness 
of my circumstances vvlien I could converse upon 
such subjects ;) from him T learned that there were 
not two men in his whole university who understood 
Greek. This amazed me. I instantly rfjsolved to 
travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek ; 
and in this design 1 was heartened by my brother- 
student, who threw out some hints that a fortune 
might be got by it. 

‘ 1 set boldly forward the next morning. Every 
day lessened the burthen of my moveables, like 
^sop and his basket of bread ; for I paid them for 
my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When 
1 came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go 
sneaking to the lower professors, but openly ten- 
dered my talents to the principal himself. I went, 
had admittance, and offered him my service as a 
master of the Greek language, which I had been told 
was a desideratum in his university. The principal 
seemed at first to doubt of my abilities ; but of these, 
1 offered to convince him, by turning a part of any 
Greek author he should fix upon into Latin. Find- 
ing me perfectly earnest in my proposal, he ad- 
dressed me thus, “You see me, young man, I never 
learned Greek, and I don’t find that I have ever 
missed it. I have had a doctor’s cap and gown 
without Greek; I have ten thousand florins a year 
without Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek ; and 
in short,” continued he, “ as I don’t know Greek, 1 
do not believe there is any good in it.” 

‘ I was now too far from home to think of re- 
turning ; so I resolved to go forward. I had some 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


153 


knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice ; I now 
/turned what was once my amusement into a present 
means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless 
peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French 
as were poor enough to be merry ; for I ever found 
them sprightly in proportion to their wants. When- 
ever I approached a peasant’s house towards night- 
fall, I played one of my most merry tune.^?, and that 
procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for 
the next day. I once or twice attempted to play for 
people of fashion, but they always thought my per- 
formance odious, and never rewarded me even with 
a trifle. This was to me the more extraordinary, as 
whenever I used in better days to play for company, 
when playing was my amusement, my music never 
failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies es- 
pecially; but, as it was now my only means,‘it was 
received with contempt ; a proof how ready the world 
is to underrate those talents by which a man is sup- 
ported. 

‘ In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no de- 
sign but just to look about me and then to go forward. 
The people of Paris are much fonder of strangers 
that have money than of those that have wit. As I 
could not boast much of either, I was no great fa- 
vourite. After walking about the town four or five 
days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I 
was preparing to leave this retreat of venial hospi- 
tality ; when passing through one of the principal 
streets,.whom should I meet but our cousin, to whom 
you first recommended me ! This meeting was very 
agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing to him. 


!54 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


He inquired into the nature of my journey to Paris, 
and informed me of his own business there, which 
was to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques 
of all kinds, for a gentleman in London, who had just 
slept into taste and a large fortune. I was the more 
surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this 
office, as he himself had often assured me he knew 
nothing of the matter. Upon asking how he had 
been taught the art of connoscento so very suddenly, 
he assured me that nothing was more easy. The 
whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to two 
rules ; the one always to observe, that the picture 
might have been better, if the painter had taken more 
pains ; and the other to praise the works of Pietro- 
Perugino. “ But,” says he, “ as I once taught you 
how to be an author in London, I’ll now undertake 
to instruct you in the art of picture-buying in Paris.” 

‘With this proposal, I very readily closed, as it was 
living ; and now all my ambition was to live. I went 
therefore to his lodgings, improving my dress by his 
assistance ; and after some time, accompanied him 
to auctions of pictures where the English gentry were 
expected to be purchasers. I was not a little surprised 
at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who re- 
ferred themselves to his judgment upon every picture 
or medal, as an unerring standard of taste. He made 
very good use of my assistance upon these occasions ; 
for when asked his opinion, he would gravely take 
me aside, and ask mine, shrug, look wise, return, and 
assure the company, that he could give no opinion 
upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there 
was sometimes an occasion for a more supported as 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 155 

surance. 1 remember to ha.e seen him, after giving 
his opinion that the colouring of a picture was not 
mellow enough, very deliberately take a brush, with 
brown varnish that was accidentally by, and rub it 
over the piece with great composure before all the 
company, and then ask if he had not improved the 
tints. 

‘When he had finished his commission in Paris, 
he left me strongly recommended to several men of 
distinction, as a person very proper for a travelling 
tutor; and, after some time, I was employed in that 
capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward to 
Paris, in order to set him forward on his tour 
through Europe. I was to be the young gentleman’s 
governor, but with a proviso that he should always 
govern himself. My pupil in fact understood the 
art of guiding in money concerns much better than 
I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred 
thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in the West- 
Indies ; and his guardians, to qualify him for the 
management of it, had bound him apprentice to an 
attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing passion ; 
all his questions on the road were, how much money 
might be saved ; which was the least expensive 
course of travel ; whether any thing could be 
bought that would turn to account when disposed 
of again in London. Such curiosities on the ivay 
as could be seen for nothing, he was ready enough 
to look at ; but if the sight of them was to be |)aid 
for he usually asserted, that he had been told they 
were not worth seeing. He never paid a bill/ that 
he would not observe, how amazingly exp^sive 
travelling was ; and all this, though he was not yet 


lof) THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took | 
a walk to look at the port and shipping, he inquired | 
the expense of the passage by sea home to Eng- 
land. This he was informed was but a trifle, 
compared to his returning by land ; he was there- 
fore unable to withstand the temptation ; so paying 
me the small part of my salary that was due, he | 
took leave, and embarked with only one attendant 
for London. I 

i 

‘II now therefore was left once more upon the ' 
world at large, but then it was a thing I was used 
to. However, my skill in music could avail me 
nothing in a country where every peasant was a 
better musician than I ; but by this time I had ac- ^ 
quired another talent which answered my purpose 
as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all 
the foreign universities and convents, there arc, 
upon certain days, philosophical theses maintained 
against evei*y adventitious disputant; for which^ ; 
if the champion opposes with any dexterity, he 
can claim ^ a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a 
bed for one night. In this manner, therefore, I 
fought my way towards England; walked along 
from city to city ; examined mankind more nearly 4 
and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the 
picture. My remarks, however, are but few : I 
found that monarchy was the best government for 
the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the rich. 

I found that riches in general were in every country 
another name for freedom ; and that no man is so 
fond of liberty himself, as not be desirous of sub- 
jecting the will of some individuals in society to hi» 
own. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


157 


‘ Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to pay 
my respects first to you, and then to enlist as a 
volunteer in the first expedition that was going 
forward ; but on my journey down, my resolutions 
were changed by meeting an old acquaintance, 
who, I found, belonged to a company of comedians 
that were going to make a summer campaign in 
the country. The company seemed not much to 
disapprove of me for an associate. They all, how- 
ever, apprised me of the importance of the task at 
which T aimed ; that the public was a many-headed 
monster, and that only such as had very good heads 
could please it ; that acting was not to be learnt in 
a day ; and that without some traditional shrugs, 
which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, 
these hundred years, I could never pretend to please. 
The next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as 
almost every character was in keeping. I was 
driven for some time from one character to another, 
till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the pre- 
sence of the present company has happily hindered 
me from acting.’ 


CHAP. XXI. 

THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONG 
THE VICIOUS, WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MU- 
TUAL SATISFACTION. 

My son’s account was too long to be delivered at 
once ; the first part of it was begun that night, and 
he was concluding the rest after dinner the nexJi 

P. 


158 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


day ; when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equip-' 
age at the door seenried to make a pause in the 
general satisfaction. The butler, who was now 
become my friend in the family, informed me in a 
Avhisper, that the squire had already made some 
overtures to Miss Wilinot, and that her aunt and 
laiele seemed highly to approve the match. Upon 
Mr. Thornhill’s entering, he seemed, at seeing my 
son and me, to start back ; but I readily imputed 
that to surprise, and not displeasure. However, upon 
our advancing to salute him, he returned our greet- 
ing with the most apparent candour; and after a 
short time, his presence seemed only to increase the 
general good humour. 

After tea, he called me aside to inquire after my 
daughter ; but upon my informing him that my in- 
quiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly sur- 
prised ; adding, that he had been since frequently 
at my house, in order to comfort the rest of the 
family, whom he left perfectly well. He then asked, 
if I had communicated her misfortune to Miss 
Wilmot, or my son ; and upon my replying, that I 
had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my 
prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means 
to keep it a secret ; ‘ for at best,’ cried he, ‘ it is but 
divulging one’s own infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy 
may not be so guilty as we all imagine. We were 
here interrupted by a servant, who came in to ask 
the squire to stand up at country-dances ; so that he 
left me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to 
take in my concerns. His addresses, however, to 
Miss Wilmot, were too obvious to be mistaken ; and 
yet she seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


159 


rather in compliance to the will of her aunt, than 
from real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to 
see her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate 
son, which the other could neither extort by his for- 
tune nor assiduity. Mr. Thornhill’s seeming compo. 
sure, however, not a little surprised me : we had now 
continued here a week, at the pressing instances of 
Mr. Arnold; but each day the more tenderness Miss 
Wilmot showed my son, Mr. Thornhill’s friendship 
seemed proportionably to increase for him. 

He had formerly made us the most kind assu- 
rances of using his interest to serve the family ; but 
now his generosity was not confined to promises 
alone. The morning I designed for my departure, 
Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real pleasure, 
to inform me of a piece of service he had done for 
his friend George : this was nothing less than his 
having procured him an ensign’s commission in one 
of the regiments that was going to the West Indies, 
for which he had promised but one hundred pounds, 
his interest being sufficient to get an abatement of 
the other two. ‘ As for this trifling piece of service,* 
continued the young gentleman, ‘ I desire no other 
reward but the pleasure of having served my friend ; 
and as for the hundred pounds to be paid, if you are 
uifuble to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and 
you shall repay me at your leisure.’ This was a 
favour we wanted words to express our sense of ; I 
readily, therefore, gave my bond for the money, and 
testified as much gratitude as if I never intended to 
pay. 

George was to depart for town the next day to 
secure his commission, in pursuance of his generous 


160 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


patron’s directions, who judged it highly expedient 
to use despatch, lest in the meantime another should 
step in with more advantageous proposals. The 
next morning, therefore, oui young soldier was early 
pre{)ared for his departure, and seemed the only per- 
son among us that was not affected by it. Neither 
the fatigues and dangers he was going to encounter, 
nor the friends and mistress (for Miss Wilmot actu- 
ally loved him) he was leaving behind, any way 
damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the 
rest of the company, I gave him all that I had, my 
blessing. ‘ And now, my boy,’ cried I, ‘ thou art go- 
ing to fight for thy country, remember’how thy brave 
grandfather fought for his sacred king, when loyalty 
among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imi- 
tate him in all but his misfortunes ; if it was a mis- 
fortune to die with Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, 
and if you fall, though distant, exposed, and unwept 
by those that love you, the most precious tears are 
those with which Heaven bedews the unburied head 
of a soldier.’ 

The next morning, I took leave of the good family, 
that had been kind enough to entertain me so long, 
not without several expressions of gratitude to Mr. 
Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the en- 
joyment of all that happiness w^hich affluence amd 
good-breeding procure, and returned towards home, 
despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but 
sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and forgive her. 
I was now come within about twenty miles of home, 
having hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but 
weak, and comforted myself with the hopes of soon 
seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


ICl 


coming on, I put up at a little public-house by the 
j-oad-side, and asked for the landlord’s company over 
a pint of wine. AVe sat beside his kitchen fire, 
w^hich was the best room in the house, and chatted 
on politics and the news of the country. AVe hap- 
pened, among other topics, to talk of young Squire 
Thornhill, who, the host assured me, was hated as 
much as his uncle. Sir William, who sometimes came 
down to the country, was loved. He went on to 
observe, that he made it his whole study to betray 
the daughters of such as received him into their 
houses, and after a fortnight or three weeks posses- 
sion, turned them out unrewarded, and abandoned 
to the world. As we continued our discourse in this 
manner, his wife, who had been out to get change, 
returned, and perceiving that her husband was en- 
joying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she 
asked him in an angry tone, what he did there ; to 
which he only replied in an ironical way, by drinking 
her health. ‘ Mr. Symonds,’ said she, ‘you use me very 
ill, and I’ll bear it no longer. Here three parts of 
the business is left for me to do, and the fourth left 
unfinished, while you do nothing but soak with the 
guests all daylong; whereas, if a spoonful of liquor 
were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop/ 
I now found what she would be at, and immediately 
poured out a glass, which she received with a curtsey, 
and drinking towards my good health, ‘ Sir,’ resumed 
she, ‘ it is not so much for the value of the liquor I 
am angry, but one. cannot help it when the house is 
going out of the windows. If the customers or 
guests are to be dunned, all the burden lies upon my 
P 2 


1G2 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


back ; he’d as lief eat that glass as budge after them 
himself. There now, above stairs, we have a young 
woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, 
and I don’t believe she has got any money, by her 
over-civility. I am certain she is very slow of pay- 
ment, and I wisli she were put in mind of it.’— ~ 

‘ What signifies minding her,’ cried the host ; ‘ if she 
be slow, she is sure.’ — ‘ I don’t know that,’ replied 
the wife; ‘ but T know that I am sure she has been 
here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the cross 
of her money.’ — ‘ I suppose, my dear,’ cried he, ‘ we 
shall have it all in a lump.’ — ‘ In a lump !’ cried the 
other, ‘ I hope we may get it any way ; and that I 
am resolved we will this very night, or out she 
tramps, bag and baggage.’ ‘ Consider, my dear,’ cried 
the husband, ‘she is a gentlewoman, and deserves 
more respect.’ — ‘ As for the matter of that,’ returned 
the hostess, ‘gentle or simple, out she shall pack 
with a sassarara. Gentry may be good things where 
they take; but for my part, I never saw much good 
of them at the sign of the Harrow.’ Thus saying, 
she ran up a narrow flight of stairs that went from 
the kitchen to a room over head, and I soon perceiv- 
ed by the loudness of her voice, and the bitterness 
of her reproaches, that no money was to be had from 
her lodger. I could hear the remonstrances very 
distinctly : ‘ Out, I say ; pack out this moment ! tramp, 
thou infamous strumpet, or I’ll give thee a mark 
thou won’t be the better for these three months. 
What! you trumpery, to come and take up an ho- 
nest house, without cross or coin to bless jmurself 
with ! come along, I say.’ — ‘ O dear Madam!’ cried 
the stranger, ‘ pity me, pity a poor abandoned crea- 



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THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


1C3 


‘ture, for one night, and death will soon do the rest.’ 
T instantly knew the voice of my poor ruined child, 
Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the woman was 
dragging her along by the hair, and I caught the dear 
forlorn wretch in my arms. ‘Welcome, any way 
welcome, my dearest, lost one, my treasure, to your 
poor old father’s bosom. Though the vicious forsake 
thee, there is yet one in the world that will never 
forsake thee ; though thou hast ten thousand crimes 
to answer for, he will forgive them all.’ — ‘O! my 
own dear,’ — ^for minutes she could say no more, — 
‘ my own dearest, good papa ! Could angels be kinder? 
How do I deserve so much? The villain, I hate him 
and myself, to be a reproach to so much goodness. 
You can’t forgive me ; I know you cannot.’ — ‘Yes, 
my child, from my heart I do forgive thee. Only 
repent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall 
see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia.’ — ‘ Ah ! never, 
Sir, never. The rest of my wretched life must be 
infamy abroad, and shame at home. But, alas ! papa, 
you look much paler than you used to do. Could 
such a thing as I am give you so much uneasiness ? 
Surely you have too much wisdom to take the mise- 
ries of my guilt upon yourself.’ — ‘ Our wisdom, young 
woman,’ replied I. — ‘ Ah ! why so cold a name, papa?* 
cried she. ‘ This is the first time you ever called me 
by so cold a name.’ — ‘ I ask pardon, my darling,’ re- 
turned I ; ‘ but I was going to observe, that wisdom 
makes but a slow defence against trouble, though at 
last a sure one.’ 

The landlady now returned to know, if we did not 
choose a more genteel apartment ; to which assent- 
ing, we were shown to a room where we could con- 


164 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


verse more freely. After we had talked ourselves 
into some degree of tranquillity, I could not avoid 
desiring some account of the gradations that led to 
Iter present wretched situation. ‘ That villain, Sir,’ 
sai'l she, ‘from the first day of our meeting, made me 
honourable, though private proposals.’ 

"^Villain indeed !’ cried I ; ‘ and yet it in some mea- 
sure surprises me, how a person of Mr. Burchell’s 
good sense, and seeming honour, could be guilty of 
such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family 
to undo it.’ 

‘ My dear papa,’ returned my daughter, ‘you labour 
under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never at- 
tempted to deceive me. Instead of that, he took 
every opportunity of privately admonishing me 
against the artifices of Thornhill, who, I now find, 
was even worse than he represented him.’ ‘ Mr. 
Thornhill !’ interrupted I, ‘can it be.^” — ‘Yes, Sir,’ 
returned she, ‘ it was Thornhill who seduced me, 
who employed the two ladies, as he called them, but 
who in fact were abandoned women of the town, 
without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. 
Their artifices, you may remember, would have cer- 
tainly succeeded, but for Mr. Burchell’s letter, who 
directed those reproaches at them which we all ap- 
|)lied to ourselves. How he came to have so much 
influence as to defeat their intentions, still remains a 
secret to me ; but I am convinced he was ever our 
warmest, sincerest friend.’ 

‘You amaze me, my dear,’ cried I; ‘but now 
I find my first suspicions of Mr. Thornhill’s base- 
ness were too well grounded ; but he can triumph 
in security : for he is rich, and we are poor. But 

I 


i THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 165 

I ^ell^me, my child ; sure it was no small temptation 
that could thus obliterate all the impressions of 
,«uch an education, and so virtuous a disposition as 
I thine ?’ 

‘ Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, ‘ he owes all his tri- 
umph to the desire I had of making him, and not 
I myself, happy. I know that the ceremony of our 
marriage, which was privately performed by a po- 
1 pish priest, was noway binding, apd that I had 
nothing to trust to but his honour.’ — ‘What!’ in- 
terrupted I, ‘ and were you indeed married by a 
priest in orders ?’ — ‘ Indeed, Sir, we were,’ replied 
she, ‘though we were both sworn to conceal his 
name.’ — ‘ Why then, my child, come to my arms 
again ; and now you are a thousand times more 
welcome than before; for you are his wife to all 
intents ahd purposes : nor can all the laws of man, 
though written upon tables of adamant, lessen the 
I force of that sacred connexion.’ 

‘ Alas I papa,’ replied she, ‘ you are but little 
jacquainted with his villanies; he has been mar- 
ried already by the same priest to six or eight 
■wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and 
j abandoned.’ 

‘Has he so?’ cried I, ‘then we must hang the 
I priest, and you shall inform against him to-mor- 
row.’ — ‘ But, Sir,’ returned she, ‘ will that be right, 
when I am sworn to secrecy — ‘ My dear,’ I replied, 
‘if you h^ive made such a promise, I cannot, nor 
will I, tempt you to break it ; even though it may bene- 
fit the public, you must not inform against him. In all 
' human institutions, a smaller evil is allowed to pro- 
cure a. greater good ; as in politics, a province may be 


166 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


given away to secure a kingdom ; in medicine, a 
limb may be lopt off, to preserve the body ; but in 
religion, the law is written, and inflexible, never to 
do evil. And this law, my child, is right ; for other- 
Mdse, if we commit a smaller evil to procure a 
greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, 
in exjiectation of contingent advantage ; and though 
the advantage should certainly follow, yet the interval 
between commission and advantage, which is allow- 
ed to be guilty, may be that in which we are called 
away to answer for the things we have done, and 
the volume of human actions is closed for ever. 
But I interrupt you, my dear ; go on.’ 

‘The very next morning,’ continued she, ‘I found 
what little expectation I was to have from his 
sincerity. That very morning he introduced me to 
two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had 
deceived, but who lived in contented prostitution, 
I loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his 
affections, and strove to forget my infamy in a 
tumult of pleasures ; with this view, I danced, 
dressed, and talked ; but still was unhappy. The 
gentlemen who visited there told me every moment 
of the power of my charms, and this only contri- 
buted to increase my melancholy, as I had thrown 
all their power quite away. Thus each day I grew 
more pensive, and he more insolent, till at last the 
monster had the assurance to offer me to a young 
baronet of his acquaintance. Need I describe. Sir, 
how his ingratitude stung me? My answer to this 
proposal was almost madness. I desired to part. 
As I was going, he offered me a purse ; but T flung 
it at him with indignation, and burst from him in a 



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THE VIC-VTl OF WAKEFIELD. 


167 


I rage that tor a while kept me insensible of the 
I miseries of my situation. But I soon looked round 
i me, and saw myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, 
! without one friend in the world to apply to. Just 
I in that interval, a stage-coach happening to pass by, 
I took a place, it being my only aim to be driven at 
a distance from a wretch I despised and detested. 
I I was set down here ; where, since my arrival, my 
own anxiety, and this woman’s unkindness, have 
I been my only companions. The hours of pleasure 
that I have passed with my mamma and sister now 
grow painful to me ; their sorrows are much ; but 
mine are greater than theirs; for mine are mixed 
with guilt and infamy.’ 

‘ Have patience, my child,’ cried I, ‘ and I hope 
things will yet be better. Take some repose to- 
night, and to-morrow I’ll carry you home to your 
mother and the rest of the family, from whom you 
will receive a kind reception. Poor woman ! this 
has gone to her heart; but she loves you still, Oli- 
via, and will forget it.’ 


CHAP. XXII. 

OFFENCES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS 
LOVE AT BOTTOM. 

The next morning, I took my daughter behind me, 
and set out on my return home. As we travelled 
along, I strove, by every persuasion, to calm her 
sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to 
bear the presence of her offended mother. 1 took 


168 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.' 


(every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine 
country, through which we passed, to observe how 
much kinder heaven was to us, than we to e: ch 
other ; and that the misfortunes of Natrre’s making 
were but very few. I assured her, that she should 
never perceive any change in my affections, and 
that during my life, which yet might be long, she 
might depend upon a guardian and an instructer. 
I armed her against the censure of the world, 
showed her that books were sweet unreproaching 
companions to tlie miserable, and that if they could 
not bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach 
us to endure it. 

The hired horse that we rode was to be put up 
that night at an inn by the way, within about five 
miles from my house ; and as I was willing to pre- 
pare my family for my daughter’s reception, I 
determined to leave her that night at the inn, and 
to return for her, accompanied by my daughter 
Sophia, early the next morning. It was night be- 
fore we reached our appointed stage ; however, 
after seeing her provided with a decent apartment, 
and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper 
refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards 
home. And now my heart caught new sensations 
of pleasure, the nearer I approached that peaceful 
mansion. As a bird that had been frightened from 
its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and 
ho^'ered round my little fire-side with all the rapture 
of expectation. I called up the many fond things I 
had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to 
receive. I already felt my wife’s tender embrace, and 
smiled at the joy of my little ones. As 1 walke^i 


169 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

I but slowly, the night waned apace. The labourers 
of the day were all retired to rest ; the lights were 
out in every cottage ; no sounds were heard but of 
the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed watch- 
dog at a hollow distance. I approached my little 
abode of pleasure, and before I was within a furlong 
I of the place, our honest mastiff came running to 
' welcome me. 

It was now near midnight that I came to knock 
at my door ; all was still and silent ; my heart dila- 
ted with unutterable happiness ; when, to my amaze- 
ment, I saw the house bursting out into a blaze of 
fire, and every aperture red with conflagration ! I 
gave a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the 
pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who 
had till this been asleep, and he, perceiving the 
flames, instantly awaked my wife and daughter, 
and all running out, naked, and wild with ap- 
prehension, recalled me to life with their anguish. 
But it was only to objects of new terror ; for the 
flames had by this time caught the roof of our 
I dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while 
I the family stood with silent agony looking on, as 
if they .enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and 
upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my 
two little ones ; but they were not to be seen. ‘ O 
misery ! where,’ cried 1, ‘ where are my little ones ?’ 

! ‘ They are burnt to death in the flames,’ said my 
! wife calmly, ‘ and I will die with them.* That mo- 
ment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were 
! just aAvaked by the fire, and nothing could have 
stopped me. ‘ Where, where are my children .^’ cried I 

a 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELO. 



rushing through flames, and bursting the door of the 
chamber in which they were confined. ‘ Where are 
my little ones.?’ — ‘ Here, dear papa ; here we arel’ 
cried they together, while the flames were just 
catching the bed where they lay. I caught them 
both in my arms, and conveyed them through the 
lire as fast as possible, while, just as I was going 
out, the roof sunk in. ‘ Now,’ cried I, holding up 
my children, ‘ now let the flames burn on, and all 
iny possessions perish. Here they are, I have saved 
iny treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our trea- 
sures, and we shall be happy.’ We kissed our little 
darlings a thousand times, they clasped us round the 
neck, and seemed to share our transports, while their 
mother laughed and wept by turns. 

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and 
after some time began to perceive that my arm to 
the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It 
was therefore out of my power to give my son any 
assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, 
or preventing the flames spreading to our corn. 
By this time tbe neighbours were alarmed, and 
came running to our assistance ; but all they could 
do was to stand, like us, spectators of the cala- 
mity. My goods, among which were the notes I 
had reserved for my daughters’ fortunes, were en- 
tirely consumed, except a box with some papers 
that stood in the kitchen, and two .or three things 
more of little consequence, which my son brought 
away in the beginning. The neighbours contri- 
buted, however, what they could to lighten our 
thslress. They brought us clothes, and furnished* 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


171 


one of our out-houses with kitchen utensils ; so 
that by daylight we had another, though a wretch- 
ed dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbour 
and his children were not the least assiduous in pro- 
viding us with every thing necessary, and offering 
whatever consolation untutored benevolence could 
suggest. 

When the fears of my family had subsided, curio- 
sity, to know the cause of my long stay began to 
take place ; having therefore informed them of 
every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for 
the reception of our lost one, and though we had 
nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I wag 
willing to procure her a welcome to what we had. 
This task would have been more difficult but for 
our own recent calamity, which had humbled my 
wife’s pride, and blunted it by more poignant 
afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor child 
myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my 
son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting 
the wretched delinquent, who had not the courage 
to look up at her mother, whom no instructions of 
mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation: 
for women have a much stronger sense of female 
error than men. ‘Ah! madam,’ cried her mother, 
‘ this is but a poor place you are come to after so 
much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford 
but little entertainment to persons who have kept 
company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss 
I/ivy, your poor father and I have suffered very 
much of late ; but I hope Heaven will forgive you.* 
During this reception, the unhappy victim stood palo 
^d trembling, unable to weep or to reply ; but I 


172 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

could not continue a silent spectator of her distress ; 
wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in my voice 
and manner, which was ever followed with instant 
submission, ‘ I entreat, woman, that my words may 
be now marked once for all ; I have here brought 
you back a poor deluded wanderer ; her return to 
duty demands the revival of our tenderness. The 
real hardships of life are now coming fast upon us, i 
let us not therefore increase them by dissensions 
among each other. If we live harmoniously together^ 
we may yet be contented, as there are enough of us 
to shut out the censuring world, and keep each other 
in countenance. The kindness of Heaven is promised 
to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the ex- 
ample. Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleas- 
ed to view a repentant sinner, than ninety-nine per- 
sons who have supported a course of undeviating 
rectitude. And this is righ^ ; for that single effort ! 
by which we stop short in the down-hill path to per- ‘ 
dition, is of itself a greater exertion of virtue, than a 
hundred acts of justice.’ 


CHAP. XXIIT. 

NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COM- 
BLETELT MISERABLE. 

Some assiduity was now required to make our pre- 
sent abode as convenient as possible, and we were 
soon again qualified to enjoy our former serenity. 
Being disabled myself from assisting my son in our 
usual occupations, I read to my family from the few 
• books that vvere saved, and particularly from such 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


173 


as, by amusing the imagination, contributed to ease 
the heart. Our good neighbours too came every 
day with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in 
which they were all to assist in repairing my former 
dwelling. Honest farmer Williams was not last 
among these visiters ; but heartily offered his friend- 
ship. He would even have renewed his addresses 
to my daughter ; but she rejected them in such a 
manner as totally repressed his future solicitations. 
Her grief seemed formed for continuing, and she 
was the only person of our little society that a week 
did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that 
tinblushing innocence which once taught her to re- 
spect herself, and to seek pleasure by pleasing. 
Anxiety had now taken strong possession of her 
mind, her beauty began to be impaired with her con- 
stitution, and neglect still more contributed to dimi- 
nish it. Every tender epithet bestowed on her sis- 
ter brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her eye ; 
and as one vice, though cured, ever plants others 
where it has been, so her former guilt, though driven 
out by repentance, left jealousy and envy behind. 
I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even 
forgot ray own* pain in a concern 'for hers, collecting 
such amusing passages of history, as a strong memory 
and some reading could suggest. ‘ Our happiness, 
my dear,’ I would say, ‘ is in the power of One who 
can bring it about a thousand unforeseen ways that 
mock our foresight. If example be necessary to prove 
this, I’ll give you a story,my child, told us by a grave, 
though sometimes a romancing, historian. 

‘ Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan 
nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a 


174 


THE VICaK of WAKEFIELD, 


widow and a mother at tlie age of fifteen. As she 
stood one day caressing her infant son in the open 
window of an aj)artment, which hung over the river 
Volturna, tlie child, with a sudden spring, leaped 
from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared 
in a moment. The mother, struck with instant sur- 
prise, and making an effort to save him, plunged in 
after ; hut far from being able to assist the infant, 
she herself with great difficulty escaped to the oppo- 
site shore, just when some French soldiers were, 
jilundering the country on that side, who immediately 
made her their prisoner. 

‘As the war was then carried on between the 
French and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, 
they were going at once to perpetrate those two ex- 
tremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base 
resolution, however, was opposed by a young officer, 
who, though his retreat required the utmost expedi- 
tion, placed her behind him, and brought her in 
safety to his native city. Her beauty at first caught 
bis eye, her merit soon after his heart. They were 
married ; he rose to the higfiest posts ; they lived 
long together^ and were happy. But the felicity of 
a soldier can never be called permanent; after an 
interval of several years, the troops which he com- 
manded having met with a repulse, he was obliged 
to take shelter in the city where he had Jived with 
his wife. Here they suffered a siege, and the city 
at length was taken. Few histories can produce 
more various instances of cruelty, than those which 
the French and Italians at that time exercised upon 
each other. It was resolved by the victors upon this 
occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death ; 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


175 


l)Ut particularly the husband of the unfortunate Matil- 
da, as he was principally instrumental in protracting 
the siege. Tiieir determinations were, in general, exe- 
cuted almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive 
soldier was led forth, and the executioner, with his 
sword, stood ready, while the spectators, in gloomy 
s ilence, awaited the fatal blow, which was only sus- 
j)ended till the general, who presided as judge, should 
give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish 
and expectation, that Matilda came to take the last 
farewell of her husband and deliverer, deploring her 
wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that had 
saved her from perishing by a premature death in 
the river Volturna to be the spectator of still greater 
calamities. The general, who was a young man, 
was struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at 
her distress ; but with still stronger emotions when 
be heard her mention her former dangers. He was 
her son, the infant for whom she had encountered 
so much danger ; he acknowledged her at once as 
his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be 
easily supposed ; the captive was set free, and all the 
happiness that love, friendship, and duty, could con 
fer on earth, were united.’ 

In this manner I would attempt to amuse my 
daughter ; but she listened with divided attention : 
for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she 
oncediad for those of another, and nothing gave her 
ease. In company she dreaded contempt; and in 
solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the colour 
of her wretchedness, when we received certain in-' 
formation that Mr. Thornhill was going to be mar- 
lied to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always suspected 


17G 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


he had a real passion, though he took every oppor- 
tunity before me to express his contempt both of her 
person and fortune. This news served only to in- 
crease poor Olivia’s affliction; for such a flagrant 
breach of fidelity was more than her courage could 
support. I was resolved, however, to get more cer- 
tain information, and to defeat, if possible, the com- 
pletion of his designs, by sending my son to old Wil- 
mot’s, with instructions to know the truth of the re- 
port, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating 
Mr. Thornhill’s conduct in my family. My son went 
in pursuance of my directions, and in three days re- 
turned, assuring us of the truth of the account ; but 
that he had found it impossible to deliver the letter, 
which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr, 
Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the 
country. They were to be married, he said, in a few 
days, having appeared together at church the Sun- 
day before he was there, in great splendour, the bride 
attended by six young ladies, and he by as many 
gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled the 
whole country with rejoicing, and they usually rode 
out together in the grandest equipage that had been 
in the country for many years. All the friends of 
of both families, he said, were there, particularly the 
squire’s uncle. Sir William, who bore so good a cha- 
racter. He added, that nothing but mirth and feast- 
ing were going forward ; that all the country praised 
the young bride’s beauty and the bridegroom’s fine 
person, and that they were immensely fond of each 
other: concluding, that he could not help thinking 
Mr. Thornhill one of the most happy men in iho 
world 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.. 


177 


r j / * Why, let him, if he can,’ returned I ; ‘ but, my 
^jiyison, observe this bed of straw, and unsheltering roof, 
[ if those mouldering walls, and humid floor, my wretch- 
ed body thus disabled by fire, and my children weep- 
ing round me for bread, you have come home my 
child, to all this, yet here, even here, you see a man 
that would not for a thousand worlds exchange si- 
^ tuations. O, my children ! if you could but learn to 
commune with your own hearts, and know what 
noble company you can make them, you would little 
regard the elegance and splendour of the worthless. 
Almost all men have been taught to call life a pas- 
sage, and themselves the travellers. The similitude 
still may be improved, when we observe that the 
.good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are 
going towards home ; the wicked but by intervals 
happy, like travellers that are going into exile,* 

My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered 
by this nev/ disaster, interrupted what I had farther 
I to observe. I bade her mother support her, and after 
I i a short time, she recovered. She appeared from that 
I I time more calm, and I imagined had gained a new 
' I degree of resolution ; but appearances deceived me; 
I' for her tran(}uillity was the languor of overwrought 
j resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent 
I us by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffiise new 
■ cheerfulness among the rest of my family, nor was 
I displeased at seeing them once more sprightly and 
at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their 
satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melan- 
choly, or to burden them with a sadness they did not 
feel. Thus once more the tale went round, and a 

I 


.178 


THE VICAR OF V'AKF>FIF.LD, 


8ong was demanded, and cheerfulness condescended 
ito hover round our little habitation. 


CHAP. XXIV. 

FRESH calamities. 

•The next morning, tlie sun arose with peculiar 
warmth for the season ; so that we agreed to break- 
fast together on the honeysuckle bank ; where> 
while we sat, my youngest daughter, at my re- 
quest, joined her voice to the concert on the trees 
about us. Jt was in this place my poor Olivia first 
met her seducer, and every object served to recall 
her sadness. But that melancholy which is excited 
by objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of 
harmony, soothes the heart, instead of corroding it. 
Her mother too, upon this occasion, felt a pleas- 
ing distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as 
before. ‘ Bo, my pretty Olivia,’ cried she, ‘ let us 
have that little melancholy air your papa was so 
fond of ; your sister Sophy has already obliged us. 
Do, child ; it will please your old father.’ She com- 
plied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic, as moved 
me 

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, 

And finds too late that men betray. 

What charm can sooth her melancholy f 
What art can wash her guilt away? 

The only art her guilt to cover. 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover. 

And wring his boMm, is — to dig, 


THE VICAR of' WAKEFIELD. 

As she was concluding the last stanza, to which 
an interruption in her voice from sorrow gave pe-* 

■ culiar softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill’s 
r equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particu-‘ 
larly increased the uneasiness of my eldest daugh- 
ter, who, dosirous of shunning her betrayer, re* 
turned to the house with her sister. In a few mi* 
nutes, he was alighted from his chariot, and making 
up to the place where I was still sitting, enquired 
after my health with his usual air of familiarity. 
‘ Sir,’ replied I, * your present assurance only 
serves to aggravate the baseness of your charac* 
ter ; and there Was a time when I would have 
chastised your insolence, for presuming thus to 
a])pear before me. But now you are safe ; for age 
has cooled my passions, and my calling restrains 
them.’ 

‘ I vow, my dear Sir,’ returned he, * I dm amazed 
at all this; nor can I understand what it means. 
I hope you do not think your daughter’s late ex* 
cursion with me bad any thing criminal in it.’ r 

‘ Go,’ cried I, ‘ thou art a Wretch, a poor, pitiful 
Wretch, and every way a liar ; but yortr meanness 
secures you from my anger! Yet, Sir, T am de- 
scended from a family that would not have borne 
this ! And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momen- 
tary passion, thou hast made one poor creature 
wretched for life, and polluted a family that had 
nothing but honour for their portion.’ 

‘ If she or you,’ returned he, ‘ are resolved to be 
miserable, I cannot help it; but you may still be 
happy ; and whatever opinion yon may have formed 

of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute 

/ 


180 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


to it. We can marry her to another in a short time ; 
and, what is more, she may keep her lover beside ; 
for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true 
regard for her.’ 

I found all my passions alarmed at this new de- 
grading proposal ; for though the mind may often be 
calm under great injuries, little villany can at any 
time get within the soul, and sting it into rage. * Avoid 
my sight, thou reptile,’ cried I, ‘ nor continue to in- 
sult me with thy presence. Were my brave son at 
home, he would not suffer this ; but I am old and 
disabled, and every way undone.’ 

. * I find,’ cried he, ‘ you are bent upon obliging 
me to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. 
But as I have shown you what may be hoped from 
my friendship, it may not be improper to represent 
what may be the consequences of my resentment. 
My attorney, to whom your late bond has been trans- 
ferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent 
the course of justice, except by paying the money 
myself, which, as I have been at some expences 
lately, previous to my intended marriage, is not so 
easy to be done. And then my steward talks of 
driving for the rent : it is certain he knows his duty ; 
for I never trouble myself with affairs of that nature. 
Yet still I could wish to serve you, and even to have 
you and your daughter present at my marriage, 
which is shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot ; 
it is even the request of my charming Arabella her- 
self, whom I hope you will not refuse.’ 

‘ Mr. Thornhill,’ replied I, ‘ hear me once for all : 
as to your marriage with any but my daughter, that 
1 never will consent to ; and thoujrh your friendshiu 


TME VICAR OF WAKEFIELD^. 




tdiild raise me to a throne, or your resentment siini: 
me to the grave, yet would I despise both. Tlnni 
hast once woefully, irreparably deceived me* 1 re- 
posed my heart upon thine honour, and have found 
its baseness. Never more therefore expect friend* 
ship from me. Go, and possess what fortune has 
given thee, beauty, riches, health, and pleasure. Go» 
and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. 
Yet, humbled as I am, shall my heart still vindicate 
its dignity ; and though thou hast my forgiveness, 
thou shalt ever have my contempt.’ 

‘ If so,’ returned he, ‘depend upon it, you shall feel 
the effects of this insolence ; and we shall shCrtly 
see which is the fittest object of Scorn, you or me.^ 
Upon which he departed abruptly. 

My wife and son, who were present at this inter 
view, seemed terrified with apprehension. My daugh- 
ters also, finding that he was gone, came out to be 
informed of the result of our conference; whichj- 
when known, alarmed them not less than the rest'. 
But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of 
his malevolence: he had already struck the blow, 
and I now stood prepared to repel every new effort ; 
like one of those instruments, used in the art of 
war, which, however thrown, still presents a point 
to receive the enemy. 

We soon, however, found that he had not threat- 
ened in vain ; for the very next morning his stevvard 
came to demand my annual rent, which, by the 
train of accidents already related, I was unable to 
pay. The consequence of my incapacity was, his 
driving my cattle that evening, and their being ap 
R 


132 THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 

praised and sold the next day for less than half their 
value. My wife and children now therefore entreat- 
ed me to comply upon any terms, rather than incur 
certain destruction. They even begged of me to 
admit his visits once more, and used all their littio 
eloquence to paint the calamities I was going to 
endure ; the terrors of a prison in so rigorous a 
season as the present, with the danger that threaten) . | 
ed my health from the late accident that happened 
by the fire. But I continued inflexible. 

‘ Why, my treasures,’ cried I, ‘ why will you 
thus attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not 
right ? My duty has taught me to forgive him, but 
my conscience will not permit me to approve. Would 
you have me applaud to the world what my heart 
must internally condemn? Would you have me 
tamely sit down, and flatter our infamous betrayer ; 
and, to avoid a prison, continually suffer the more 
galling bonds of mental confinement ? No, never. 
If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us 
hold to the right, and wherever we are thrown, we 
can still retire to a charming apartment, when we 
can look round our own hearts with intrepidity and 
with pleasure !’ 

In this manner we spent the evening. Early the 
next morning, as the snow had fallen in great abun- 
dance in the night, my son was employed in clearing 
it away, and opening a passage before the door. He 
had not been thus engaged long, when he came run- 
ning in, with looks all pale, to tell us that two stran- 
gers, whom he knew to be oflicers of justice, were 
making towards the house. 


I , THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. \ 1S3 

i ' Just as he spoke, they came in, and, approachinj^ 
/the bed where I lay, after previously informing me 
f of their employment and business, made me their 
. prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the 
county gaol, which was eleven miles off. 

‘ My friends,’ said I, ‘ this is severe weather in 
which you are come to take me to prison ; and it is 
particularly unfortunate at this time, as one of my 
arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and 
it has thrown me into a slight fever, and I want 
clothes to cover me,- and I am now too weak and 
old to walk far in such deep snow ; but if it must 
be so — ’ 

I then turned to my wife and children, and directed 
fhem to get together what few things were left us, 
and to prepare immediately fpr leaving this place. I 
entreated them to be expeditious ; and desired my 
son to assist his eldest sister, who, from a conscious- 
ness that she was the cause of all our calamities, 
was fallen, and had lost anguish in insensibility. 1 
encouraged my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasp- 
; ed our affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung,^ 
to her bosom in silence, dreading to look round at 
the strangers. In the mean time, my youngest 
daughter prepared for our departure ; and as she 
received several hints to use dispatch, in about an 
hour we were ready to depart. 


184 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

CHAP. XXV. 

SfO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT' SEEMS, BUT 
HAS SOME SORT OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT. 

We set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, 
and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being 
^enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun for some 
days to undermine her constitution, one of the 
officers, who had a horse, kindly took her behind 
him ; for even these men cannot entirely divest them- 
selves of humanity. My son led one of the little 
ones by the hand, and my wife the other ; while 1 
leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears fell not 
for her own, but my distresses. 

We were now got from my late dwelling about 
two miles, when we saw a crowd running and shout- 
ing behind us, consisting of about fifty of my poorest 
parishioners. These with dreadful imprecations, soon 
seized upon the two officers of justice, and swearing 
they would never see their minister go to a gaol, 
while they had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, 
were going to use them with great severity. The 
consequence might have been fatal, had I not imme- 
diately interposed, and with some difficulty rescued 
the officers from the hands of the enraged multitude. 
My children, who . looked upon my delivery now as 
certain, appeared transported with joy, and were in- 
p&pable of containing their raptures. But they 
were soon undeceived, upon hearing me address the 
poo>- deluded people, \vho come as they imagined, tq 
jiu me service. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 105 

‘What ! my friends,’ cried I, ‘ and is this the w^ay 
j you love me ? Is this the manner you obey the in- 
structions I have given you from the pulpit ? thus to 
fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on 
yourselves and me! Which is your ringleader? 
Show me the man that has thus seduced you. As 
sure as he lives, he shall feel my resentment. Alas i 
my dear deluded flock, return back to the duty you 
owe to God, to your country, and to me. I shall 
yet, perhaps, one day see you in greater felicity 
here, and contribute to make your lives more happy 
But let it at least be my comfort, when I pen my 
fold for immortality, that not one here shall be 
wanting.’ 

They now seemed all repentancp, and melting into 
tears, came one after the other to bid me farewell. 
I shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them 
my blessing, proceeded forward without meeting 
any further interruption. Some hours before night, 
we reached the town, or rather village ; for it con- 
sisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all its 
former opulence, and containing no marks of its 
ancient superiority but the gaol. 

Upon entering, we put up at an inn, where we 
had such refreshments as could most readily be 
procured, and 1 supped with my family with my 
usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly 
accommodated for that night, I next attended the 
sheriff’s ofiicers to the prison, which had formerly 
been built for the purposes of war, and consisted of 
one large apartment, strongly grated, and paved with* 
stone, common to both felons and debtors at certain 
R 2 


18G 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


hours in the four-and-twenty. Besides this, every 
prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked in 
for the night. 

I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but 
lamentations, and various sounds of misery ; but it 
was very different. The prisoners seemed all em- 
ployed in one common design, that of forgetting 
thought in merriment or clamour. I was apprised 
of the usual perquisite required upon these occasions, 
and immediately complied with the demand, though 
the little money I’ had was very near being all ex- 
hausted. This was immediately sent away for liquor, 
and the whole prison was soon filled with riot, 
laughter, and profaneness. 

‘ How !’ cried I to myself, ‘ shall men so very 
wicked be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy? I 
feel only the same confinement with them, a^d I 
think I have more reason to be happy.’ 

With some reflexions, I laboured to become 
cheerful; but cheerfulness was never yet produced 
by effort, which is itself painful. As I was sitting 
therefore in a corner of the gaol, in a pensive posture, 
one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and sitting by 
me, entered into conversation. It was my constant 
rule in life, never to avoid the conversation of any 
man who seemed to desire it ; for if good, I might 
profit by his instructions if bad, he ftiight be assist- 
ed by mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of 
strong unlettered sense, but a thorough knowledge 
of the world, as it is called, or, more properly speak- 
ing, of human nature on the wrong side. He asked 
me, if I had taken care to provide myself with abed. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


187 


which was a circumstance I had never once attend- 
ed to. 

I ‘ That’s unfortunate,’ cried he, ‘ as you are allow- 
ed nothing but straw, and your apartment is very 
large and cold. However, you seem to be something 
of a gentleman, and as I have been one myself in my 
time, part of my bed-clothes are heartily at your 
service.’ 

I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding 
such humanity in a gaol, in misfortunes; adding, to 
let him see that I was a scholar, ‘ that the sage an- 
cient seemed to understand the value of company 
in affliction, when he said, ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton 
etairon ;’ and in fact, continued I, ‘ what is the world* 
if it affords only solitude ?’ ' 

‘ You talk of the world. Sir,’ returned my fellow- 
prisoner ; ‘ the world is in its dotage ; and yet the 
cosmogony, or creation of the world, has puzzled 
the philosophers of every age. What a medley of 
opinions have they not broached upon the creation 
of the world ! Sanconiathon, Manetho, Berosus, and 
Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain ; the 
latter has these words, Anarchon am kai atelution to 

pan^ which implies ’ — ‘ I ask pardon, Sir,’ cried 

I, ‘ for interrupting so much learning ; but I think I 
have heard all this before. Have I not had the 
pleasure of once seeing you at Welbridge fair, and 
is not your name Ephraim Jenkinson At this de- 
mand, he only sighed. ‘ I suppose you must recol- 
lect,’ resumed I, ‘ one Dr. Primrose, from whom 
you bought a horse.’ 

He now at once recollected me, for the gloomi- 


188 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


ness of the place and the approaching night had 
prevented his distinguishing my features before. 

‘ Yes, Sir,’ returned Mr. Jenkinson, ‘ I remember 
you perfectly well ; I bought a horse, but forgot to i 
pay for him. Your neighbour Flamborough is the 
only prosecutor I am any way afraid of at the next 
assizes ; for he intends to swear positively against 
me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, Sir, I ever de- 
ceived you, or indeed any man ; for you see,’ con- 
tinued he, pointing to his shackles, ‘ what my tricks i 
have brought me to.’ 

‘ Well, Sir,’ replied I, ‘ your kindness in offering 
me assistance, when you could expect no return, | 
shall be repaid with my endeavours to soften, or i 
totally suppress, Mr. Flamborough’s evidence, and 
I will send my son to him for that purpose the first 
opportunity ; nor do I in the least doubt but he 
will comply with my request; and as to my own 
evidence, you need be under no uneasiness about 
that.’ 

‘ Well, Sir,’ cried he, ‘ all the return I can make 
shall be yours. You shall have more than half my 
bed-clothes to-night, and I’ll take care to stand 
your friend in the prison, where I think I have some 
influence.’ 

I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised 
at the present youthful change in his aspect ; for at 
the time I had seen him before, he appeared at least 
sixty. ‘ Sir,’ answered he, ‘ you are little acquainted 
with the world ; I had at that time false hair, and 
have learned the art of counterfeiting every age from 
seventeen to seventy. Ah ! Sir had I but bestowed 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


189 


ialftlie pains in learning a trade, that I have in learn- 
ing to be a scoundrel, I might have been a rich 
jlnan at this day. But, rogue as I am, still I may be 
/ your friend, and that, perhaps, when you least ex- 
pect it.’ 

We were now prevented from further conversar 
tion by the arrival of the gaoler’s servants who 
came to call over the prisoners’ names, and lock up 
for the night. A fellow also with a bundle of straw 
for my bed attended, who led me along a dark nar- 
row passage into a room paved like the common 
prison, and in one corner of this, I spread my bed, 
and the clothes given me by my fellow-prisoner; 
which done, my conductor, who was civil enough, 
bade me a good night. After my usual meditations, 
and having praised my heavenly corrector, I laid my- 
self down, and slept with the utmost tranquillity till 
morning. 


CHAP. XXVI. 

A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL, — TO MAKE LAWS 
COMPLETE, THEY SHOULD REWARD AS 
WELL AS PUNISH. 

The next morning early, I was awakened by my 
family, whom I found in tears at my bed-side. The 
gloomy appearance of every thing about us, it seems, 
had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, 
assuring them I had never slept with greater tran- 
quillity, and next enquired after my eldest daughter, 
who was not among them. They infotmed me, that 


190 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


yesterday’s uneasiness and fatigue, had increased 
her fever, and it was judged proper to leave her be- 
hind. My next care was to send my son to procure 
a room or two to lodge my family in, as near the pri- 
son as conveniently could be found. He obeyed, 
but could only find one apartment, which was hired 
at a small expense, for his mother and sisters, the 
goaler with humanity consenting to let him and his 
two little brothers be in the prison with me. A bed 
was therefore prepared for them in a corner of the 
room which I thought answered very conveniently. 
I was willing, however, previously to know whether 
my little children chose to lie in a place which seem- 
ed to fright them upon entrance. 

‘Well,’ cried I, ‘my good boys, how do you like 
your bed ? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this 
room, dark as it appears.’ 

‘No, papa,’ says Dick, ‘I am not afraid to lie any 
where, where you are.’ 

‘And I,’ says Bill, who was yet but four years old, 
‘love every place best that my papa is in.’ 

After this, I allotted to each of the family what 
they were to do. My daughter, was particularly di- 
rected to watch her declining sister’s health ; my 
wife was to attend me ; my little boys were to read 
tome: ‘And as for you, my son,’ continued I, ‘it is 
by the labour of your hands we must all hope to be 
supportd. Your wages, as a day-labourer, will be 
fully sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain us 
all and comfortably too. Thou art now sixteen years 
old, and hast strength, and it is given thee, my son, 
for very useful purooses ; for it must save from fa 


* _ * 

I THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, ' i 191 

mine your helpless parents and family. Prepare then 
this evening to look out for work against to-morrow, 

„ and bring home every evening what money you earn 
I for our support.’ 

Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, T 
walked down to the common prison, where I could 
enjoy more air and room. But I was not long there, 
when the execrations, lewdness, and brutality, that 
j invaded me on every side, drove me back to my 
apartment again. Here I sat for some time ponder- 
ing upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who, 
finding all mankind in open arms against them, were 
labouring to make themselves a future and tremen- 
dous enemy. 

Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, 
and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. 
It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to at- 
tempt to reclaim them. I resolved therefore once 
more to return, and in spite of their contempt, to 
* give them my advice, and conquer them by perse- 
J verance. Going therefore among them again, I in- 
j formed Mr. Jenkinson of my design ; at which he 
laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest. 
The proposal was received with the greatest good 
humour, as it promised to afford a new fund of en- 
tertainment, to persons who had now no other re- • 
source for mirth but what could be derived from ri- 
dicule or debauchery. 

I therefore read them a portion of the service with 
a loud unaffected voice, and found my audience per- 
fectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whispers, 
groans of contrition buriesqued, winking and cough- 


tttE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


192 

ing, alternately excited laughter. However, I con-, 
tinued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible 
that what T did might amend some, but could itself 
receive no contamination from any. ’ 

Aftei* reading, I entered upon my exhortation^ 
which was rather calculated at first to amuse them 
than to reprove. T previously observed that no other 
motive but their welfare could induce me to this; 
that I was their fellow-prisoner, and now got no- 
thing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them 
so very profane ; because they got nothing by it, and 
might lose a great deal ; ‘for, be assured, my friends,’ 
cried I, ‘(for you are my friends, however the world 
may disclaim your friendship) though you swore 
twelve thousand oathes in a day, it would not put 
one penny in your purse. Then what signifies call, 
ing every moment upon the devil, and courting his 
friendship, since you find how scufvily he uses you ? 
He has given you nothing here, you find but a mouth- 
ful of oaths and an empty belly ; and, by the best ac- 
counts I ha\^e of him, he will give you nothing that’s 
good hereafter. 

‘ If used ill in our dealings with one man,- we' 
naturally go elsewhere. Were it not worth your 
while then, just to try how you may like tlie usage' 
of another master, who gives you fair promises at 
least to come to" him ? Surely, my friends, of all 
stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest, who, 
after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for pro- 
tection. And yet how are you more wise ? You are‘ 
all seeking comfort from one who has already be- 
trayed you, applying to a more malicious being than- 


I 


tHE VICAR OF WAKEFIELDr T 193 

fiiny thief-taker of them all ; for they only decoy, and 
then hang you ; but he decoys and hangs, and, what 
is worst of all, will not let you loose after the hang- 
man has done.’ 

When I had concluded, I received the compli- 
ments of iny audience, some of whom came and 
shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very 
honest fellow, and that they desired my further ac- 
quaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my lec- 
ture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of 
making a reformation here; for it had ever been 
my opinion, that no man was past the hour of 
amendment, every heart lying open to the shafts of 
reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. 
When 1 had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to 
my apartment, where my wife prepared a frugal 
meal, while Mr. Jenkinson begged leave to add his 
dinner to our’s, and partake of the pleasure, as he 
was kind enough to express it, of my conversation. 
He had not yet seen my family, for as they came to 
my apartment by a door in the narrow passage 
already described, by this means they avoided the 
common prison, Jenkinson at the first interview 
therefore seemed not a little struck with the beauty 
of my youngest daughter, which her pensive air 
contributed to heighten ; and my little ones did not 
pass unnoticed. 

* Alas ! doctor,’ cried he, ‘ these children are too 
handsome and too good for such a place as this !’ 

‘ Why, Mr. Jenkinson,’ replied I, ‘ thank Heaven, 
my children are pretty tolerable in morals, and if 
they be good, it matters little for the rest.’ 

S 


104 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELB. 


‘1 fancy, Sir,’ returned my fellow-prisoner, *tbaf 
it must give you a great comfort to have this little 
family about you.’ 

‘ A comfort ! Mr. Jenkinson,’ replied I, ‘ yes, it is 
indeed a comfort, and I would not be without them 
for all the world ; for they can make a dungeon 
seem a palace. There is but one way in this life of 
wounding my happiness, and that is by injuring 
them.’ 

‘ I am afraid, then Sir,’ cried he, * that I am in 
some measure culpable ; for I think I see here,’ 
(looking at my son Moses) ‘ one that I have in- 
jured, and by whom I wish to he forgiven.’ 

My son immediately recollected his voice siid 
features, though he had before seen him in disguise, 
and taking him by the hand, with a smile forgave 
him. ‘ Yet,’ continued he, ‘ I can’t help wondering 
at what you could see in my face, to think me a 
proper mark for deception,’ 

‘My dear Sir,’ returned the other, ‘it was not 
your face, but your white stockings and the black 
ribband on your hair, that allured me. But no dis- 
paragement to your parts, I have deceived wiser 
men than you in my time ; and yet with all my 
tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me 
at last.’ 

‘ I suppose,’ cried my son, ‘ that the narrative of 
such a life as your’s must be extremely instructive 
and amusing.’ 

‘Not much of either,’ returned Mr. Jenkinson, 
‘ Those relations which describe the tricks and vices 
only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion in life 


THE VICAR Ot WAKEFIELD. 


195 


retard our success. The traveller that distrusts 
every person he meets, and turns back upon the ap- 
pearance of every man that looks like a robber, 
seldom arrives in time at his journey’s end. 

‘Indeed I think,* from my own experience, that 
the knowing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. 
I was thought cunning from my very childhood ; 
when but seven years old, the ladies would say that 
I was a perfect little man ; at fourteen I knew the 
world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies; at 
twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet every one 
thought me so cunning, that no one would trust me. 
Thus I was at last obliged to turn sharper in my 
own defence, and have lived ever since, my head 
throbbing with schemes to deceive, and my heart 
palpitating with fears of detection. I used often 
to laugh at your honest simple neighbour Flambo- 
rough, and one way or another generally cheated 
him once a year. Yet still the honest man went 
forward without suspicion, and grew rich, while I 
still continued tricksy and cunning, and was poor 
without the consolation of being honest- However,* 
continued he, ‘ let me know your case, and what 
has brought you here ; perhaps, though I have not 
skill to avoid a gaol myself, I may extricate my 
friends.’ 

In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him 
of the whole train of accidents and follies that had 
plunged me into my present troubles, and my utter 
inability to get free. 

After hearing my story, and pausing some mi- 
nutes, he slapt his forehead, as if he had hit upon 


196 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


something material, and took his leave, saying, he 
would try what could be done. 

CHAP. XXVII. 

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 

The next morning, I communicated to my wife and 
children the scheme I had planned of reforming the 
prisoners, which they received with universal dis- 
approbation, alleging the impossibility and impro- 
priety of it ; adding, that my endeavours would no 
way contribute to their amendment, but might pro- 
bably disgrace my calling. 

♦ Excuse me,’ returned I ; ‘ these people, how- 
ever fallen, are still men, and that is a very good 
title to my affections. Good counsel rejected re- 
turns to enrich the giver’s bosom ; and though the 
instruction I communicate may not mend them, 
yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, 
my children, were princes, there would be thou- 
sands ready to offer their ministry ; but, in my opi- 
nion, the heart that is buried in a dungeon is as 
precious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, my 
treasures, if I can mend them, I will ; perhaps 
they will not all despise me ; perhaps I may catch 
up even one from the gulph, and that will be great 
gain ; for is there upon earth a gem so precious as 
the human soul ?’ 

This saying, I left them, and descended to the 
common prison, where I found the prisoners very 


THE VrCAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


197 


merry, expecting rny arrival, and each prepared with 
some gaol-trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as 
I was going to begin, one turned my wig away as if 
by accident, and then asked my pardon. A second, 
who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting 
through his teeth, which fell in showers upon my 
book. A third would cry ‘ Amen,’ in such an affect- 
ed tone as gave the rest great delight. A fourth had 
slily picked my pocket of my spectacles. But there 
was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure 
than all the rest ; for observing the manner in which 
I had disposed my books on the table before me, he 
very dexterously displaced one of them, and put an 
obscene jest-book of his own in the place. However. 
I took no notice of all this mischievous group of 
little beings could do, but went on, perfectly sensible 
that what was ridiculous in my attempt would excite 
mirth only the first or second time, while what was 
serious would be permanent. My design succeeded, 
and in less than six days some were penitent, and all 
attentive. 

It was how that I applauded my perseverance and 
address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches divest- 
ed of every moral feeling, and now began to think 
<5f doing them temporal services also, by rendering 
their situation somewhat more comfortable. Their 
time had hitherto been divided between famine and 
excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their 
only employment was quarrelling among each other, 
playing at cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. 
From this last mode of idle industry, I took the hint 
of setting such as chose to work at cutting pegs for 
S2 


108 ; THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood being 
bought by a general subscription, and, when manu- 
factured, sold by my appointment; so that each earn- 
ed something every day, a trifle indeed, but sufficient 
to maintain him. 

f did not stop here, but instituted fines for the 
punishment of immorality, and rewards for peculiar 
industry. Thus in less than a fortnight, I had form- 
ed them into something social and humane, and had 
The pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator, who 
had brought men from their native ferocity into 
friendship and obedience. 

And it were highly to be wished, that legislative 
power would thus direct the law rather to reforma- 
tion than severity: that it would soon be convinced 
that the work of eradicating crimes is not by mak- 
ing punishments familiar, but formidable ; then, 
instead of our present prisons, which find or make 
men guilty, which enclose wretches for the com- 
mission of one crime, and return them, if returned 
alive, fitted for the perpetration of thousands. It 
were to be wished we had, as in other parts of 
Europe", places of penitence and solitude, where 
the accused might be attended by such as could 
give them repentance, if guilty, or new motives to 
virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the in- 
creasing punishments, is the way to mend a state ; 
nor can I avoid even questioning the validity of 
that right which social combinations have assumed, 
of capitally punishing offences of a slight na- 
ture, In cases of murder, their right is obvious, 
as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self-de- 


THE VICAR OF 'WAKEFIELD. *' 19^ 

fence, to cut off the man who has shown a disre- 
gard for the life of another. Against such, all na- 
ture rises in arms ; but it is not so against him who 
steals my property. Natural law gives me no right 
to take away his life, as by that the horse he steals 
is as much his property as mine. If then I have 
any right, it must be from a compact made between 
us, that he who deprives the other of his horse, shall 
die. But this is a false compact ; because no man 
has a right to barter his life, no more than take it 
away, as it is not his own. And besides the com- 
pact is inadequate, and would be set aside even in 
a court of modern equity, as there is a great pe- 
nalty for a trifling inconvenience, since it is far 
better that two men should live, than one man 
should ride. But a compact that is false between 
two men, is equally so between a hundred and a 
hundred thousand ; for as ten millions of circles can 
never make a square, so the united voice of myriads 
cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. 
It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature 
says the same thing. Savages, that are directed by- 
natural law alone, are very tender of the lives of 
each other ; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate 
former cruelty. 

Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, 
had but few executions in times of peace ; and in 
all commencing governments that have the print of 
nature still strong upon them, scarce any crime is 
held capital. 

It is among the citizens of a refined community 
that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich| 


200 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFTEI.D. 


are laid open to the poor. Government, while it 
grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of 
age ; and as if our property were become dearer 
in proportion as it increased, as if the more enor- 
mous our wealth, the more extensiv^e our fears all 
our possessions are paled up with new edicts every 
day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every 
invader. 

I cannot tell, whether it is from the number of 
our penal laws, or the licentiousness of our people, 
hat this country should show more convicts in a 
year than half the dominions of Europe united. 
Perhaps it is owing to both ; for they mutually pro- 
duce each other. When, by indiscriminate penal 
laws, a nation beholds the same punishment affixed 
to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no 
distinction in the penalty, the people are led to 
lose all sense of distinction in the crime, and this 
distinction is the bulwark of all morality ; thus the 
multitude of laws produce new vices, and new 
vices call for fresh restraints. 

It were to be wished then that power, instead of 
contriving new^ laws to punish vice, instead of 
drawing hard the cords of society till a convulsion 
come to burst them, instead of cutting away 
wretches as useless, before we have tried their 
utility, instead of converting correction into ven- 
geance, it were to be wished that we tried the re- 
strictive arts of government, and made law the 
protector, but not the tyrant of the people. We 
should then find, that creatures whose souls are 
held as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner ; 


'the VirAR OF WAKEFIELD. ' SOI 

we should then find that wretches, now shut up 
for long tortures, lest luxury should feel a momen- 
tary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to 
sinew the state in times of danger ; that as their 
faces are like our’s, their hearts are so too ; that 
few minds are so base, as that perseverance cannot 
amend ; that a man may see his last crime without 
dying for it ; and that very little blood will serve to 
-cement our security. 


CHAP. XXVIII. 

I 

I HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OP 
I PRUDENCE THAN OF VIRTUE IN THIS LIFE; TEM- 
I ' PORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES BEING REGARDED BY 
HEAVEN AS THINGS MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRI- 
FLING, AND UNWORTHY ITS CARE IN THE DISTRI- 
BUTION. 

I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, 
but bad not since my arrival been visited by my 
dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Hav 
ing communicated my wishes to my wife, the next 
morning the poor girl entered my apartment, lean- 
ing on her sister’s arm. The change which I saw 
in her countenance struck me. The numberless 
graces that once resided there were now fled, and 
the hand of death seemed to have moulded every 
feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her 
forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon 
Jier cheek. 

♦ I arr) glad to see thee, my dear,’ cried I ; ‘ but 


209 ' THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

why this dejection, Livy? I hope, my love, you 
have too great a regard for me, to permit disap- 
pointment thus to undermine a life which I prize as 
my own. Be cheerful, my child, and we may yet 
see happier days.’ 

‘ You have ever, sir,’ replied she, * been kind 
to me, and it adds to my pain, that I shall never 
have an opportunity of sharing that happiness you 
promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved 
for me here ; and 1 long to be rid of a place where 
I have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you 
would make a proper submission to Mr. Thornhill ; 
it may, in some measure, induce him to pity you, and 
it will give me relief in dying.’ 

‘ Never, child,’ replied I, ‘ never will I be brought 
to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute ; for though 
the world may look upon your offence with scorn, 
let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not 
of guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in this 
place, however dismal it may seem ; and be assur- 
ed, that while you continue to bless me by living, he 
shall never have my consent to make you more 
wretched by marrying another.’ 

After the departure of my daughter, 'biy fellow- 
prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly 
enough expostulated upon my obstinacy, in refusing 
a submission which promised to give me freedom. 
He observed, that the rest of my family were not to 
be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she 
the only one who had offended me. ‘ Besides,’ add- 
ed he, ‘I don’t know if it be just thus to obstruct 
the union of man and wife, wdiich you do at present, 


THE ViCJiR OF WAKKFIELd/ 20^ 

by refusing to consent to a match which you cannot 
hinder, but may render unhappy.’ 

‘ Sir,’ replied I, ‘ you are unacquainted with the 
man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no 
submission I can make would procure me liberty 
even for an hour. I am told, that even in this very 
room, a debtor of his, no later than last year, died 
for want. But, though my submission and approba- 
tion could transfer me from hence to the most beau- 
tiful apartment he is possessed of, yet I would grant 
neither, as something whispers me, that it would be 
giving a sanction to adultery. While my daughter 
lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be legal in 
my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the 
basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to 
attempt putting asunder those who wish for a union. 
No, villian as he is, I should then wish him married, 
to prevent the consequences of his future debauche- 
ries. But now, should I not be the most cruel of all 
fathers, to sign an instrument which must send my 
child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself ; 
and thus to escape one pang, break my child’s heart 
with a thousand.’ 

He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but 
could not avoid observing, that he feared my daugh- 
ter’s life was already too much wasted to keep me 
long a prisoner.' ‘However,’ continued he, ‘though 
you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you 
have no objection to laying your case before the 
uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom' 
for every thing that is just and good. I would’ 
advise you to send him a letter by the post, inti’-- 


204 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 

mating all his nephew’s ill-usage, and my life for if, 
that, in three days, you shall have an answer.’ I i 
thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about 
complying ; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all 
our money bad been laid out that morning in pro- 
visions ; however he supplied me. 

For the three ensuing days, I was in a state of 
anxiety, to know what reception my letter might 
meet with ; but in the mean time, was frequently 
solicited by my wife to subrhit to any conditions 
rather than remain here, and every hour received 
repeated accounts of the decline of my daughter’s 
health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but 
I received no answer to my letter ; the complaints I 
of a stranger against a favourite nephew, were no 
way likely to succeed ; so that these hopes soon' I 
vanished like all my former. My mind, however,- ; 
still supported itself, though confinement and bad^ 
air began to make a visible alteration in my health, 
and my arm that had suffered in the fire, grew worse. ! 
My children, however, sat by me, and while I was 
stretched on my straw, read to me by turns, or listen- 
ed and w^ept at my instructions. But my daughter’s i 
health declining faster than mine, every message I 
from her contributed to increase my apprehensions j 
and pain. The fifth morning after I had written the ; 
letter which was sent to Sir William Thornhill, I 
was alarmed with an account that she was speech- 
less. Now it was that confinement was truly pain- 
ful to me ; my soul was bursting from its prison to 
be near the pillow of my child, to comfort, to 
strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and teach 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


205 


her soul the way to Heaven! Another account 
came ; she was expiring, and yet I was debarred the 
small comfort of weeping by her. My fellow pri- 
soner some time after came with the last account. He 
bade me be patient ; she was dead ! The next 
morning he returned, and found me with my two 
little ones, now my only companions, who were 
using all their innocent efforts to comfort me. They 
entreated to read to me, and bade me not cry, for I 
was now too old to weep. ‘ And is not my sister an 
angel now, papa ?’ cried the eldest, ‘ and why then 
are you sorry for her ? I wish I were an angel, out 
of this frightful place, if my papa were with me.’ — 
‘ Yes,’ added my youngest darling, ‘ Heaven, where 
my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there are 
none but good people there, and the people here are 
very bad.’ 

Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle, 
by observing, that now my daughter was no more, I 
should seriously think of the rest of my family, and 
attempt to save my own life, which was every day 
declining for want of necessaries and wholesome air. 
He added that it was now incumbent on me to sacri- 
^ce any pride or resentment of my own to the wel- 
fare of those who depended on me for support ; and 
that I was now, both by reason and justice, obliged 
to try to reconcile my landlord. 

‘ Heaven be praised,’ replied I, ‘ there is no pride 
left me now. I should detest my own heart, if I saw 
either pride or resentment lurking there. On the 
contrary, as my oppressor has been once my parish- 
ioner, I hope one day to present him up an iinDollui- 
T 


20(j THE VICAR OF WAKEFIEJLd. 

ed soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no > 
resentment now ; and though he has taken from me 
what I held dearer than all his treasures, though he i 
has wrung my heart, for I am sick almost to fainting, j 
very sick, my fellow-prisoner, yet that shall never in- 
spire me with vengeance. 1 am now willing to ap- 
prove his marriage, and, if this submission dan do 
him any pleasure, let him know, that, if I have done 
him any injury, I am sorry for it.’ Mr. Jenkinson 
took pen and ink, and wrote down my submission 
nearly as I have expressed it, to which I signed my 
name. My son was employed to carry the letter to 
Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat in the coun- 
try. He went, and in about six hours returned with 
a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, he said, 
to get a sight of his landlord ; as the servants were 
insolent and suspicious ; but he accidentally saw him 
as he was going out upon business, preparing for his 
marriage, which was to be in three days. He con- 
tinued to inform us, that he stept up in the humblest 
manner, and delivered the letter, which, when Mr. 
Thornhill had read, he said that all submission was 
now too late and unnecessary ; that he had heard of 
our application to his uncle, which met with the con- 
tempt it deserved ; and as for the rest, that all future 
applications should be directed to his attorney, not 
to him. He observed, however, that, as he had a 
very good opinion of the discretion of the’two young 
ladies, they might have been the most agreeable in* 
tercessors. 

‘Well Sir,’ said I to my fellow-prisoner, ‘younovv 
discover the temper of the man who oppresses me f 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.' 


207 


I he can at once be facetious and cruel ; but let him 
use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all 
his bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards 
an abode that looks brighter as 1 approach it ; this 
expectation cheers my afflictions ; and though I leave 
a helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will 
not be utterly forsaken ; some friend, perhaps, will 
be found to assist them for the sake of their poor far 
ther, and some may charitably relieve them for the 
sake of their heavenly Father.’ 

Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen 
that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and 
! making efforts, but unable to speak. ‘ Why, my love,’ 

1 cried I, ‘ why will you thus increase my afflictions by 
I your own ? What though no submission can turn our 
severe master, though he has doomed me to die in 
“ this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost 
a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your 
other children, when I ^allbe no more.’-^‘ Wehave 
indeed lost,’ returned she, ‘ a darling child ! My Sor 
phia, my dearest is gone ; snatched from us, carried 
off by ruffians !’ 

‘ How, Madam !’ cried my fellow-prisoner ; ‘ Miss 
Sophia carried off by villains ! Sure it cannot be !’ 

I She could only answer with a fixed look, and a 
flood of tears. But one of the prisoners’ wives, who 
was present, and came in with her, gave us a more 
distinct account: she informed us, that as my wife» 

[ my daughter, and herself, were taking a Avalk toge- 
ther on the great road, a little way out of the village, 
a post-chaise and pair drove up to them, and in- 
I eiarttly stopt ; upon which a well-drest man, but not 


son THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter 
round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the postil- 
lion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a mo 
ment. 

‘ Now,’ cried I, ‘ the sum of my miseries is made 
up, nor is it in the power of any thing on earth to 
give me another pang. What ! not one left ! not 
leave me one ! the monster ! the child that was next 
my heart ! she had the beauty of an angel, and almost 
the wisdom of an angel. But support that woman, nor 
let her fall. Not to leave me one !’ — ‘ Alas, my husband,’ 
said my wife, ‘ you seem to want comfort even more 
than I, Our distresses are great ; but I could bear this 
and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take away 
my children, and all the world,if they leave me but you.’ 

My son, who was present, endeavoured to mode- 
rate her grief ; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped 
that we might still have reason to be thankful. — ‘My 
child,’ cried I, ‘ look round fhe world, and see if there 
be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of 
comfort shut out ; while all our bright prospects only 
lie beyond the grave.’ — ‘ My dear father,’ returned 
he, ‘I hope there is still something that will give you 
an interval of satisfaction ; for I have a letter from 
my brother George.’ — ‘ What of him, my child ?’ in- 
terrupted I, ‘ does he know our misery ? I hope my 
boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched fa- 
mily suffers.’ — ‘Yes, Sir,’ returned he, ‘ he is perfectly 
gay, cheerful and happy. His letter brings nothing but 
good news ; he is the favourite of his colonel, who 
j)romises to procure him the very next lieutenancy 
that becomes vacant.’ 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


209 


But are you sure of all this ? cried my wife ; ‘ are 
you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy ?’ — ‘ No- 
thing indeed, Madam,’ returned my son ; ‘ you shall 
see the letter, which will give you the highest plea- 
sure ; and if any thing can procure you comfort, I 
am sure that will.’ — ‘ But are you sure,’ still repeated 
she, ‘ that the letter is from himself, and that he is 
really so happy ?’ — ‘ Yes, Madam,’ replied he, ‘ it is 
certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and 
the support of our family.’ — ‘ Then I thank Provi- 
dence,’ cried she, ‘ that my last letter to him has mis- 
carried. — Yes, my dear,’ continued she, turning to 
me, ‘ I will now confess, that though the hand of 
Heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it has been 
favourable here. By the last letter I wrote my son, 
which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, 
upon his mother’s blessing, and if he had the heart 
of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, 
and avenge our cause. But thanks be to Him who 
directs all things, it has miscarried, and 1 am at rest.’ 
— ‘ Woman,’ cried I, ‘ thou hast done very ill, and at 
another time my reproaches might have been more 
severe. Oh ! what a tremendous gulph hast thou 
escaped, that would have buried both thee and him 
in endless ruin ! Providence, indeed, has here been 
kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved 
that son to be the father and protector of my children, 
when I shall be away. How unjustly did I complain 
of being stript of every comfort, when still I hear 
that he is happy and insensible of our afflictions ; 
still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, 
and to protect his brothers and sisters. But what 
T2 


210 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


sisters has he left ! he has no sisters now, tliey are 
all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone!’ — ‘Fa- 
ther,’ interrupted niy son, ‘ I beg you will give me 
leave to read his letter : I know it will please you.’ 
Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows : 

“ Honoured Sir, 

“ I HAVE called off my imagination a few moments 
from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon 
objects that are still more pleasing, the dear little 
fire-side at home. My fancy draws that harmless 
group as listening to every line of this with great 
composure. I view those faces with delight, which 
never felt the deforming hand of ambition or distress. 
But, whatever your happiness may be at home, I am 
sure it will be some addition to it to hear that I am 
perfectly pleased with my situation, and every way. 
happy here. 

“ Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to 
leave the kingdom ; the colonel, who professes him- 
self my friend, takes me with him to all companies 
where he is acquainted ; and, after my first visit, I 
generally find myself received with increased respect 
upon repeating it. I danced last night Avith Lady 

G , and could I forget you know whom, I might 

be perhaps, successful. But it is my fate still to re- 
member others, while I am myself forgotten by most 
of my absent friends ; and in this number, I fear, Sir, 
that I must consider you, for I have long expected 
the pleasure of a letter from home to no purpose. 
Olivia and Sophia too promised to write, but seem 
to have forgotten me. Tell them that they are two 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


211 


arrant little baggages, and that I am this moment in 
a most violent passion with them ; yet still, I know 
not liQw, though I want to bluster a little, my heart 
is respondent only to softer emotions. Then tell 
them. Sir, that^after all, I love them affectionately ; 
and be assured of my ever remaining your dutiful 
son.” 

‘ In all our miseries,’ cried I, ‘ what thanks have 
we not to return, that one at least of our family is 
exempted from what we suffer! Heaven be his 
guard, and keep my boy thus happy to be the sup- 
port of his widowed mother, and the father of these 
two babes, which is all the patrimony I can now be- 
queath him ! May he keep their innocence from the 
temptations of want, and be their conductor in the 
paths of honour !’ I had scarcely said these words, 
when a noise, like that of a tumult, seemed to pro- 
ceed from the prison below ; it died away soon after, 
and clanking of fetters was heard along the passage 
that led to my apartment. The keeper of the prison 
entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded, and 
fettered with the heaviest irons. I looked with com- 
j)assion upon the wretch as he approached me, but 
with horror, when I found it was my own son. 
‘ My George ! My George I and do I behold thee 
thus ! wounded 1 fettered ! Is this thy happiness ? 
Is this the manner you return to me O I that 
this sight would break my heart at once, and let me 
die I’ 

‘ Where, Sir, is your fortitude returned my son, 


212 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


with an intrepid voice ; ‘ I must suffer ; my life is 
forfeited, and let them take it.’ 

I tried to restrain my passion for a few minutes 
in silence, but I thought I should have died with the 
effort. ‘ O ! my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee 
thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the moment 
I thought thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, to 
behold thee thus again ! chained, wounded ! And 
yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I am 
eld, a very old man, and have lived to see this day, 
*0 see my children all untimely falling about me, 
while I continue a wretched survivor in the midst 
of ruin ! May all the curses that ever sunk a soul, 
fall heavy upon the murderer of my children. May 
he live, like me, to see — ’ 

‘ Hold, Sir,’ replied my son, ‘ or I shall blush 
for thee. How, Sir ! forgetful of your age, your 
holy calling, thus to arrogate the justice of Hea- 
ven, and fling those curses upward that must soon 
descend to crush thy own grey head with destruc- 
tion ! No, Sir, let it be your care now to fit me for 
that vile death I must shortly suflTer, to arm me 
with hope and resolution, to give me courage to 
drink of that bitterness which must shortly be my 
portion.’ 

‘ My child you must not die ! I am sure no offence 
of thine can deserve so vile a punishment. My 
George could never be guilty of any crime to make 
his ancestors ashamed of him.’ 

‘ Mine, Sir,’ returned my son, ‘ is, I fear, an un- 
pardonable one. When I received my mothers 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 213 

fetter from home, I immediately came down, de- 
termined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and 
sent him an order to meet me, which he answered, 
not in person, but by dispatching four of his do- 
mestics to seize me. I wounded one who first 
assaulted me, and, I fear, desperately ; but the 
rest made me their prisoner. The coward is deter- 
mined to put the law in execution against me the 
proofs are undeniable ; I have sent a challenge, and 
as I am the first aggressor upon the statute, I see no 
hopes of pardon. But you have often charmed me 
with your lessons of fortitude ; let me now. Sir, find , 
them in your example. 

‘ And, my son, you shall find them. I am now ' 
raised above this world, and all the pleasures it can > 
produce. From this moment, I break from my heart 
all the ties that held it down to earth, and will pre- 
pare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, I will 
point out the way, and my soul shall guide yours in 
the ascent, for we will take our flight together. I 
now see and am convinced, you can expect no par- 
don here, and can only exhort you to seek it at that 
greatest tribunal where we both shall shortly answer. 
But let us not be niggardly in our exhortations, but 
let all our fellow-prisoners have a share. Good 
gaoler, let them be permitted to stand here, while I 
attempt to approve them.’ Thus saying, I made an 
effort to rise from the straw, but wanted strength, 
and was able only to recline against the wall. The 
prisoners assembled according to my directions, for 
they loved to hear my counsel ; my son and his mo- 
ther siipnorted me on cither side ; I looked, and saw 


214 ^ THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

that none were wanting, and then addressed them 
yyith the foUowing exhortation. 



CHAP. XXIX. ^ 

' the equal dealings of providence DEMONSTRAs- 

TED WITH REGARD TO THE HAPPY AND THE MISE 
RABLE here BELOW. THAT, FROM THE NATURE 
OF PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE WRETCHED MUST BE 
REPAID TjHE BALANCE OF THEIR 'SUFFERINGS IN 
' THE LIFE HEREAFTER. 

" Mr friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, when 
, 1 reflect on the distribution of good and evil here ber 
. low, I find that much has been given man to enjoy, 
yet still more to suffer. Though we should examine 
“the whole worjd, we shall not find one man so happy 
,as to have nothing left to wish for; but we daily see 
thousands who by suicide show they have nothing 
left to hope. In this life, then, it appears that we 
.cannot be entirely blest ; but yet we may be com- 
pletely miserable. 

‘ Why man should thus feel pain, why our wretch- 
edness should thus be requisite in the formation of 
universal felicity, why, when all other systems are 
made perfect by the perfection of their subordinate 
parts, the great system should require for its perfec- 
tion, parts that are not only subordinate to others, 
^ut imperfect in themselves,— these are questions 
|hat never can be explained, and might be useless, 
ijr^pown. Qn this subjecf, Providence has thougU^ 


THE VICAR CfF WAKEFIELD. 

nt to elude our curiosity, satisfiea with granting uu 
motives to consolation. 

‘ In this situation, man has called in the friendly 
assistance of philosophy; and Heaven, ffeeing the in- 
capacity of that to console him, has given him the 
aid of religion. The consolations of philosophy are 
very amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us, that 
life is filled ^ith comforts, if we will but enjoy them : 
and, on the other hand, that though we unavbidably 
have miseries here, life is short, and they will sooft 
be over. Thus do these consolations destroy each' 
other ; for if life is a place of comfort, its shortness 
must be misery ; and if it be long, our griefs are pro- 
tracted. Thus philosophy is weak ; bUt religion con>- 
forts in a higher strain. Man is here, it tells uS, fit- 
ting up his mind, and preparing it for another abode. 
When the good man leaves the body, and is all a 
glorious mind, he will find he has been making him- 
self a heaven of happiness here ; while the wretch 
that has been maimed and contaminated by Ms vices, 
shrinks from his body with terror, and finds that he 
has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To reli- 
gion then, we must bold in every circumstance of 
life, for our truest comfort ; for if already We are' 
happy, it is a pleasure to think that we can make that 
happiness unending ; and if we are miserable, it is 
very consoling to think that there is a place of fest. 
Thus, to the fortunate, religion holds out a continu- 
ance of bliss ; to the wretched a change from pain. 

‘ But, though religioujs very kind to' all men, it 
has promised peculiar rewards to the unhappy ; 
the sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, ^ 


216 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


and the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises 
in our sacred law. The Author of our religion 
every where professes himself the wretch’s friend ; 
and, unlike the false ones of this world, bestows all 
his caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking have 
censured this as partiality, as a preference without 
merit to deserve it. But they never reflect, that it 
is not in the power even of Heaven itself to make 
the offer of unceasing felicity as great a gift to the 
happy as to the miserable. To the first eternity is 
but a single blessing ; since, at most, it but increases 
what they already possess. To the latter it is a 
double advantage ; for it diminishes their pain here, 
and rewards them with heavenly bliss hereafter. 

‘But Providence is in another respect kinder to 
the poor than the rich ; for as it thus makes the life 
after death more desirable, so it smooths the passage 
there. The wretched have had a long familiarity 
with every face of terror. The man of sorrow lays 
himself quietly down, with no possessions to regret, 
and but few ties to stop his departure ; he feels only 
nature’s pang in the final separation, and this is no i 
way greater than he has often fainted under before ; | 
for, after a certain degree of pain, every new breach ' 
that death opens in the constitution, nature kindly - 
covers with insensibility. 

‘ Thus Providence has given to the wretched two 
advantages over the happy in this life ; greater feli- 
city in dying, and in Heaven all that superiority of 
pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoyment: 
and this superiority, my friends, is no small ad- 
vantage, and seems to be' one of the pleasures of 


tllE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


217 


ttu* poor man in the parable ; for though he was al- 
ready in heaven, and felt all the raptures it could 
give, yet it Avas mentioned, as an addition to his 
happiness, that he had once been wretched,' and 
now was comforted ; that he had kno\Vn what it 
was to be miserable, and now felt what it Avas to 
be haj)py< 

‘Thus, my friends, you see religion does whaf 
philosophy could never do: it shows the equal deal- 
ings of heaven to the happy and the unhappy, and 
levels all human enjoyments to nearly the same 
standard. It gives to both rich and poor the same 
happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after 
it ; but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying 
pleasures here, the poor have the endless satisfaction 
of knowing what it was once to he miserable, when 
crowned with endless felicity hereafter ; and even 
though this should be called a small advantage, yet, 
being an eternal one, it must make up, by dura- 
tion, what the temporal happiness of the great may 
have exceeded by intenseness. 

‘ These are therefore the consolations which the 
wretched have peculiar to themselves, and in which 
they are above the rest of mankind ; in other re- 
spects, they are below them. They who woiild know 
the miseries of the poor, must see life and endure it.^ 
To declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy, 
is only repeating what none either believe or practise^ 
The men who have the necessaries of living, are not 
poor ; and they who want them, must be miserable. 
Yes, my friends, we must he miserable. No vain 
clforts of a refined imagination can sooth the waiiis 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

of nature, can give elastic sweetness to the dark 
vapour of a dungeon, or ease the throbbings of 
a broken heart. Let the philosopher from his couch 
of softness tell us we can resist all these. Alas! 
the effort by which we resist them is still the great- 
est pain. Death is slight, and any man may’ sustain 
it ; but torments are dreadful, and these no man can 
endure. 

‘ To us, then, my friends, the promises of happi- 
ness in Heaven should be peculiarly dear ; for if our 
reward be in this life alone, we are indeed of all 
men the most miserable. When I look round these 
gloomy walls, made to terrify, as well as to confine 
us, this light, that only serves to show the horrors of 
the place, those shackles, that tyranny has imposed, 
or crime made necessary, when I survey these imma- 
ciated looks, and hear those groans, — O, my friends, 
what a glorious exchange would Heaven be for 
these ! To fly through regions unconfined as air, to 
bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss, to carol over 
endless hymns of praise, to have no master to threat- 
en or insult us, but the form of goodness himself for 
ever in our eyes, — when 1 think of these things, 
death becomes the messenger of very glad tidings ; 
when I think of these things, his sharpest arrow be- 
comes the staff of my support; when I think of 
these things, what is there in life worth having ? 
when I think of these things, what is there that 
should be spurned away? Kings in their palaces 
should groan for such advantages ; but we, humbled 
as we are, should yern for them. 

* And shall these things be our’s ? Our’s they will 
certainly be, if we but try for them ; and what is 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.' 21 D 

■ir 

a comfort, we are shut out from many temptations 
that would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for 
them, and they will certainly be our’s ; and what is 
still a comfort, shortly tocv; for if we look back on 
past life, it appears but a very short span, and 
whatever we may think of the rest of life, it will 
yet be found of less duration ; as we grow older, 
the da^s seem to grow shorter, and our intimacy 
with time ever lessens the perception of his stay. 
Then let us take comfort now, for we shall soon be 
at our journey’s end ; we shall soon lay down the 
heavy burden laid by Heaven upon us ; and though 
death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little 
while mocks the weary traveller with the view, and 
like the horizon, still flies before him ; yet the time 
will certainly and shortly come, when we shall cease 
from our toil ; when the luxurious great ones of 
the world shall no more tread us to the earth ; when 
we shall think with pleasure of our sufferings below ; 
when we shall be surrounded with all our friends, 
or such as deserved our friendship; when our 
bliss shall be unutterable, and still to crown all, un- 
ending.* 

CHAP. XXX. 

HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. LET US BE 
INFLEXIBLE, AND FORTUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE 
IN OUR FAVOUR. 

When T bad thus finished, and my audience was 
retired, the gaoler, who was one of the most hu- 
mane of bis profession, hoped I would not be dis- 




THE VICAR OF WAKEFTF.m. 


} (leased, as what he did was hut his duty; observ- 
ing, that he must be obliged to remove my son imf> 
a stronger cell, but he should be permitted to visit 
me every morning, I thanked him for his cle- 
mency, and grasping my boy’s hand, bade him fare- 
well, and be rpindful of the great duty that was 
before him. 

I again, therefore, laid me down, and one* of my 
little ones sat by my bed-side reading, when Mr. 
.(enkinson entering, informed me that there was 
news of my daughter ; for that she was seen by a 
person about two hours before in a strange gentle- 
man’s company, and that they had stopped at a 
neighbouring village for refreshment, and seemed 
as if returning to town. He had scarce delivered 
this news, when the gaoler came with looks of haste 
and pleasure, to inform me that my daughter was 
found. Moses carne running in a moment after 
crying out that his sister Sophy was below, and 
coming up with our old friend, Mr. Burchell, 

Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl 
entered, and, with looks almost wild with pleasure, 
ran to kiss me in a transport of affection. Her 
mother’s tears and silence also showed her pleasuse. 

‘ Here, papa,’ cried the charming girl, ‘ here is the 
brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to this gen- 
tleman’s intrepidity I am indebted for my happi- 
ness and safety.* A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose 
pleasure seemed even greater than her’s, interrupt- 
ed what she was going to add. 

‘ Ah ! Mr. Burchell,’ cried I, ‘ this is but a wretch- 
fcd habitation you find us in ; and we are now very 






y 

\r 


f 





THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


221 


different from what you last saw us. You were 
ever our friend : we have long discovered our errors 
with regard to you, and repented of our ingratitude. 
After the vile usage you then received at my hands, 
I am almost ashamed to behold your face ; yet I 
hope you’ll forgive me, as I was deceived by a base, 
ungenerous wretch, who, under the mask of friend- 
ship, has undone me.’ 

‘It is impossible,’ replied Mr. Burchell, ‘that I 
should forgive you, as you never deserved my re- 
sentment. I partly saw your delusion then, and-as 
it was out of my power to restrain, I could only 
pity it.’ 

‘It was ever my conjecture,’ cried I, ‘that your 
mind was noble ; but now I find it so. — But tell me^ 
my dear child, how hast thou been relieved, or who 
the ruffians were that carried thee away ?’ 

‘ Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, ‘ as to the villain who 
carried me off, I am yet ignorant ; for as my mam- 
ma and I were walking out, he came behind us, 
and, almost before I could call for help, forced me 
into the post-chaise, and in an instant the horses 
drove away. I met several on the road, to whom 
I cried out for assistance ; but they disregarded my 
entreaties. In the mean time, the ruffian himself 
used every art to hinder me from crying out ; he 
flattered and threatened me by turns, and swore 
that if I continued but silent, he intended no harm. 
In the mean time, I had broken the canvas that he 
had drawn up, and whom should I perceive, at 
some distance, but your old friend Mr. Burchell, 
walking along with his usual swiftness, with the 
U2 


]B22 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELR* 

great stick for which we used so much to ridicuio 
him. As soon as we came within hearing, I called 
to him by name, and entreated his help. 1 repeated 
my exclamations several times ; upon which, with a 
very loud voice, he bid the postilion stop; but the 
boy took no notice, but drove on with still greater 
speed. 1 now thought he could never overtake us, 
when, in less than a minute, I saw Mr. BurcheU 
come running up by the side of the horses, and with 
one blow, knock the postilion to the ground. The 
horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped of them- 
selves ; and the ruffian, stepping out, with oaths and 
menaces, drew his sword, and ordered him at his 
peril to retire ; but Mr. Burchell running up, shiver- 
ed his sword to pieces, and then pursued him for 
near a quarter of a mile ; but he made his escape. 

I was at this time come out myself, willing to assist 
my deliverer; but he soon returned to me in triumph. 
The postilion, who was recovered, was going to make 
his escape too ; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his 
peril to mount again, and drive back to town. Find- 
ing it impossible to resist, he reluctantly complied, 
though the wound he had received seemed to me at 
least, to be dangerous. He continued to complain of 
the pain as we drove along, so that he at last excited 
Mr. Burcheffis compassion ; who, at my request ex- 
changed him for another at an inn where we called 
pn our return.’ 

‘ Welcome, then,’ cried I, ‘my child, and thou her 
gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes. Though 
pur cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready 
tu receive you. And now. Mr. Burchell. as you have 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 223 

delivered my girl, if you think her a recompence, 
she is your’s ; if you can stoop to an alliance with a 
family so poor as mine, take her, obtain her consent, 
as I know you have her heart, and you have mine. 
And let me tell you. Sir, that I give you no small 
treasure ; she has been celebrated for beauty, it is 
true, but that is not my meaning, — I give you a trea- 
sure in her mind.’ 

‘But I suppose. Sir,’ cried Mr. Burchell, ‘ that you 
are apprised of my circumstances, and of my inca- 
pacity to support her as she deserves !’ 

‘If your yiresent objection,’ replied I, ‘be meant 
as an evasion of my offer, I desist ; but I know no 
man so worthy to deserve her as you ; and if I could 
give her thousands, and thousands sought her from 
me, yet my honest, brave Burchell should be my 
dearest choice.’ 

To all this, his silence alone seemed to give a 
mortifying refusal ; and, without the least reply to 
my offer, he demanded if we could not be furnished 
with refreshments from the next inn ; to which be- 
ing answered in the affirmative, he ordered them to 
send in the best dinner that could be provided upon 
Buch short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of their 
best wine, and some cordials for me ; adding with a 
smile, that he would stretch a little for once ; and 
though in a prison, asserted he was never more dis- 
posed to be merry. The waiter soon made his ap- 
pearance with preparations for dinner ; a table was 
lent us by the gaoler, who seemed remarkably assidu- 
ous ; the wine was disposed in order, and two very 
ivell-dressed dishes were brought in. 


224 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


My daughter had not yet heard of her poor bro- 
ther’s melancholy situation, and we all seemed 
unwilling to damp her cheerfulness by the relation. 
But it was in vain that I attempted to appear 
cheerful ; the circumstances of my unfortunate son 
broke through all efforts to dissemble ; so that I 
was at last obliged to damp our mirth by relating 
his misfortunes, and wishing he might be permitted 
to share with us in this little interval of satisfac- 
tion. After my guests were recovered from tho 
consternation my account had produced, I request- 
ed also that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow-prisoner, might 
be admitted ; and the gaoler granted my request 
with an air of unusual submission. The clanking 
of my son’s irons was no sooner heard along the 
passage, than his sister ran impatiently to meet him; 
while Mr. Burchell, in the mean time, asked me, if 
iny son’s name was George ; to which replying in 
the affirmative, he still continued silent. As soon as 
my boy entered the room, I could perceive he re- 
garded Mr! Burchell with a look of astonishment 
and reverence. ‘ Come on,’ cried I, ‘ my son ; though 
we are fallen very low, yet Providence has been 
pleased to grant us some small relaxation from pain. 
Thy sister is restored to us, and there is her deliver- 
er; to that brave man it is that I am indebted for 
yet having a daughter; give him, my boy, the hand 
of friendship ; he deserves our warmest gratitude.’ 

My son seemed all this while regardless of what 
I said, and still continued fixed at a respectful dis- 
tance. ‘ My dear brother,’ cried his sister, ‘ why 
don’t you thank my good deliverer? the brave should 
ever love each other.’ 


THE VICAR. OF WAKEFIELD. 


225 


He still continued his silence and astonishment 
till our guest at last perceived himself to be known, 
and, assuming all his native dignity, desired my 
son to come forward. Never before had I seen any 
thing so truly magestic as the air he assumed upon 
this occasion. The greatest object in the universe, 
says a certain philosopher, is a good man struggling 
with adversity ; yet there is a still greater, which is 
the good man that comes to relieve it. After he 
had regarded my son for some time with a superior 
air, ‘ T again find,’ said he, ‘ unthinking boy, that 

the same crime’ But here he was interrupted 

by one of the gaoler’s servants, who came to in- 
form us that a person of distinction, who had 
driven into town with a charriot and several attend- 
ants, sent his respects to the gentleman that was 
with us, and begged to know when he should think 
proper to be waited upon. ‘Bid the fellow wait,’ 
cried our guest, ‘ till I shall have leisure to receive 
him ;’ and then turning to my son, ‘ I again find, 
Sir,’ proceeded he, ‘ that you are guilty of the same 
oflTcnce for which you once had my reproof, and for 
which the law is now preparing its justest punish- 
ments. You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt of 
your own life gives you a right to take that of ano- 
ther; but where, Sir, is the difference between a 
duellist who hazards a life of no value, and the mur- 
derer who acts with greater security.^ Is it any 
diminution of the gamester’s fraud, when he alleges 
that he staked a counter ?’ 

‘ Alas! Sir,’ cried I, ‘ whoever you are, pity the 
poor misguided creature; for what he has done 


226 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


was in obedience to a deluded mother, who, in the 
bitterness of her resentment, required him, upon 
her blessing, to avenge her quarrel. Here, Sir, is 
the letter, which will serve to convince you of her 
imprudence, and diminish his guilt.’ 

He took the letter, and hastily read it over 
* This,’ says he, ‘ though not a perfect excuse, is 
such a palliation of his fault, as induces me to for- 
give him. And now. Sir,’ continued he, kindly 
taking my son by the hand, ‘ I see you are sur- 
prised at finding me here ; but I have often visited 
prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am now 
come to see justice done a worthy man, for whom I 
have the most sincere esteem. I have long been a 
disguised spectator of thy father’s benevolence. i 
have at his little dwelling enjoyed respect, unconta- 
minated by flattery, and have received that happi- 
ness that courts could not give, from the amusing 
simplij5ity round his fire-side. My nephew has been 
apprised of my intentions of coming here, and I find 
he is arrived ; it would be wronging him and you to 
condemn him without examination ; if there be injury 
there shall be redress ; and this I may say without 
boasting, that none have ever taxed the injustice of 
Sir William Thornhill.’ * 

We now found that the personage whom we had 
long entertained as a harmless, amusing companioq, 
was no other than the celebrated Sir William Thorn- 
hill, to whose virtues and singularities scarce any 
were strangers. ' The poor Mr. Burchell was in re- 
ality a man of large fortune and great interest, to 
whom senates listened with applause, and whom 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 227 

party heard with conviction ; who was the friend of 
his country, but loyal to his king. My poor wife, 
recollecting her former familiarity, seemed to shrink 
with apprehension ; but Sophia, who a few moments 
before thought him her own, now perceiving the im- 
mense distanse to which he was removed by fortune, 
was unable to conceal her tears. 

‘ Ah ! Sir,* cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, 
‘how is it possible that I can ever have your forgive- 
ness ? the slights you received from me the last time 
I had the honour of seeing you at our house, and the 
jokes which I audaciously threw out,— these, Sir, I 
fear, can never be forgiven.’ 

‘ My dear good lady,’ returned he with a smile, 
‘ if you had your joke, I had my answer ; I’ll leave 
it to all the company, if mine were not as good as 
your’s. To say the truth, I know nobody whom I 
am disposed to be angry with at present, but the 
fellow who so frightened my little girl here. I had 
not even time to examine the rascal’s person, so as 
to describe him in an advertisement. Can you tell 
me, Sophia, my dear, whether you should know him 
again ?’ 

‘ Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, ‘ I cannot be positive ; 
yet, now I recollect, he had a large mark over one 
of his eye-brows.’ — ‘ I ask pardon. Madam,’ inter- 
rupted Jenkinson, who was by ; ‘ but be so good as 
to inform me, if the fellow wore his own red hair?’ 
- — ‘ Yes, I think so,’ replied Sophia. — ‘ And did 
your honour,’ continued he, turning to Sir William, 
‘ observe the length of his legs ?’ — ‘ I can’t be sure 
of their length,’ cried the baronet, ‘ but I am con- 


22n TtrE VICAR OF WAKEFIELt). 

vinced of their swiftness ; for he out-ran me, which 
is what I thought few men in the kingdom could 
have done.’ — ‘ Please your honour,’ cried Jenkin- 
Bon, ‘I know the man; it is certainly the same; 
the best runner in England ; he has beaten Pin- 
wire, of Newcastle ; Timothy Baxter is his name: 
I know him perfectly, and the very place of his re- 
treat this moment. If your honour will bid Mr. 
Gaoler let two of his men go with me, I’ll engage 
to ])roduce him to you in an hour at farthest.’ Up- 
on this the gaoler was called, who instantly appear- 
ing, Sir William demanded, if he knew him. ‘ Yes, 
please your honour,’ replied the gaoler, ‘ I know Sir 
William Thornhill well, and every body that knows 
any thing of him, will desire to know more of him^ 
— Well, then,’ said the baronet, ‘ my request is, 
that you will permit this man and two of your ser- 
vants to go upon a message by my authority ; and,- 
as I am in the commission of the peace, I under- 
take to secure you.’ — ‘ Your promise is sufficient,’ 
replied the other, ‘ and you may, at a minute’s 
warning, send them over England, whenever your 
honour thinks fit.’ 

I« pursuance of the gaoler’s compliance, Jenkin- 
son was dispatched in pursuit of Timothy Baxter, 
while we were amused with the assiduity of our 
youngest boy Bill, who had just come in, and climb- 
ed up to Sir William’s neck in order to kiss him. 
Ilis mother was immediately going to chastise his 
familiarity, but the worthy man prevented her, and 
taking the child, all ragged as he was, uj)on his knee, 
* What, Bill ! you chubby rogue,’ cried he, ‘ do you 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ^ 229 

remember your old friend Burchell ? — and Dick too, 
my honest veteran, are you here ? you shall find I 
have not forgotten you.’ So saying, he gave each a 
large piece of gingerbread, which the poor fellows 
ate very heartily, as they had got that morning but 
a very scanty breakfast. 

We now sat down to dinner, which was almost 
cold ; but, previously, my arm still continuing pain- 
ful, Sir William wrote a prescription, for he had 
made the study of physic his amusement, and was 
more than moderately skilled in the profession ; this 
being sent to an apothecary who lived in the place, 
rny arm was dressed, and I found almost instantane- 
ous relief. We were waited upon at dinner by the 
gaoler himself, who was willing to do our guest 
all the honour in his power. But before we had well 
dined, another message was brought from his nephew 
desiring permission to appear, in order to vindicate 
his innocence and honour ; with which request the 
baronet complied, and desired Mr. Thornhill to be 
introduced. 



CHAP. XXXI. 

former benevolence now repaid with unex- 
pected INTEREST. 

Mr. Thornhill made his entrance with a smile, which 
he seldom wanted, and was going to embrace his 
uncle, which the other repulsed with an air of dis- 
dain. ‘ No fawning. Sir, at present,’ cried the 
X 


230 , 


THE VICAR OF WAEEFTEEt) , t 


baronet, with a look of severity ; ‘ the only way 
to my heart is by the road of honour ; but here I 
only see complicated instances of falsehoodi cow- 
ardice, and oppression. How is it. Sir, that this 
poor man, for whom I know you professed a friend- 
ship, is used thus hardly ? His daughter vilely 
seduced as a recompence for his hospitality, and 
he himself- thrown into prison, perhaps but for re 
senting the insult ? — his son too, whom you feared 
to face as a man’ — 

‘ Is it possible. Sir,’ interrupted his nephew, 

‘ that my uncle should object that as a crime which 
his repeated instructions alone have persuaded me 
to avoid ?’ 

‘Your rebuke,’ cried Sir William, ‘is just; you 
have acted in this instance prudently and well, 
though not quite as your father would have done ; 
my brother indeed was the soul of honour; but 
thou — yes, you have acted in this instance perfectly 
right, and it has my warmest approbation.’ 

‘ And I hope,’ said his nephew, ‘ that the rest of 
my conduct will not be found to deserve censure, 
I appeared. Sir, with this gentleman’s daughter at 
some places of public amusement ; thus, what was 
levity, scandel called by a harsher name, and it was 
reported that I had debauched her. I waited on 
her father in person, willing to clear the thing to 
his satisfaction, and he received me only with in- 
sult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his 
being here, my attorney and steward can best in- 
form you, as I commit the management of business 
entirely to them. If he has contracted debts, and 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


231 


is unwilling, or even unable to pay them, it is their 
business to proceed in this manner ; and I see no 
hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal 
means of redress.’ 

‘ If this,’ cried Sir William, ‘ be as you have 
stated it, there is nothing unpardonable in your 
offences ; and, though your conduct might have been 
more generous, in not suffering this gentleman to be 
oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been 
at least equitable.’ 

‘ He cannot contradict a single particular,’ replied 
the squire, ‘ 1 defy him to do so, and several of my 
servants are ready to attest what 1 say. Thus, Sir,’ 
continued he, finding that I was silent, for in fact I 
could not contradict him, ‘ thus. Sir, my own inno- 
cence is vindicated ; but though at your entreaty 
I am ready to forgive this gentleman every other 
offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in your 
esteem, excite a resentment that I cannot govern ; 
and this too at a time when his son was actually 
preparing to take away my life ; this, I say, was 
such guilt, that I am determined to let the law take 
its course. I have here the challenge which was 
sent me, and two witnesses to prove it ; one of my 
servants has been wounded dangerously ; and even 
though my uncle himself should dissuade me, which 
I know he will not, yet 1 will see public justice 
done, and he shall suffer for it,’ 

‘Thou monster,’ cried my wife, ‘hast thou not 
had vengeance enough already, but must my poor 
boy feel thy cruelty ? I hope that good Sir William 
will protect us, for my son is as innocent as a child ; 
1 am sure he is, and never did harm to man.’ 


232 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


‘ Madam,’ replied the good man, ‘ your wishes 
for his safety are not greater than mine ; but 1 am 
sorry to find his guilt too plain, and if my ne- 
phew persists — ’ But the appearance of Jenkin- 
son and the gaoler’s two servants now called off our 
attention, who entered hauling in a tall man, very 
genteelly dressed, and answering the description 
already given of that ruffian who had carried off my 
daughter. ‘ Here',’ cried Jenkinson, pulling him 
in, ‘ here we have him, and, if ever there was a 
candidate for Tyburn, this is one.’ 

The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner 
and Jenkinson, who had him in custody, he seemel 
to shrink backward with terror. His face became 
pale with conscious guilt, and he would have with- 
drawn ; but Jenkinson, who perceived his design, 
stopped him. ‘ What ! squire.’ cried he, ‘ are you 
ashamed of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson 
and Baxter ? But this is the way that all great men 
forget their friends, though I am resolved we will 
not forget you. Our prisoner, please your honour,’ 
continued he, turning to Sir William, ‘has already 
confessed all. This is the gentleman reported to bo 
dangerously wounded ; he declares that it was Mr. 
Thornhill who first put him upon this affair ; that 
he gave him the clothes he now wears, to appear 
like a gentleman, and furnished him with a post- 
chaise. The plan was laid between them, that he 
should carry off the young lady to a place of safety, 
and that there he should threaten and terrify her ; 
but Mr. Thornhill was to come in, in the mean 
time, as if by accident, to her rescue, and that they 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


233 


should fight awhile, and then he was to run off ; 
by which means Mr. Thornhill would have the bet- 
ter opportunity of gaining her affections himself, 
under the character of her defender.’ 

Sir William remembered the coat to have been fre- 
quently worn by his nephew, and all the rest the pri- 
soner himself confirmed by a more circumstantial 
account ; concluding that Mr. Thornhill had often 
declared to him, that he was in love with both sisters 
at the same time. 

‘ Heavens ! cried Sir William, ‘ what a viper 
have I been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond of 
public justice too, as he seemed to be ! But he shall 
have it — Secure him Mr. Gaoler — yet hold, I fear 
there is no legal evidence to detain him.’ 

Upon this, Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humi- 
lity, entreated that two such abandoned wretches 
might not be admitted as evidences against him, but 
that his servants should be examined. ‘Your ser- 
vants !’ replied Sir William ; ‘ wretch, call them 
your’s no longer ; but come, let us hear what those 
fellows have to say ; let his butler be called.’ 

When the butler was introduced, he soon per- 
ceived by his former master’s looks, that all his 
power was now over. ‘ Tell me,’ cried Sir William, 
sternly, ‘ have you ever seen your master, and that 
fellow dressed up in his clothes, in company to- 
gether — ‘ Yes, please your honour,’ cried the 
butler, ‘ a thousand times : he was the man that 
always brought him his ladies.’ — ‘ How !’ inter- 
rupted young Mr. Thornhill, ‘ this to my face ?’ — ■ 
‘ Yes,’ replied the butler, ‘or to any man’s face. 
X2 


234 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


To tell you a truth, Master Thornhill, I never 
either loved you or liked you, and I don’t care, if I 
tell you now a piece of my mind.’ — ‘ Now then.’ 
cried Jenkinson, ‘ tell his honour whether you knew 
au}/ thing of me.’ — ‘ I can’t say,’ replied the butler. 
‘ that I know mu(di good of you. The night that 
gentleman’s daughter was deluded to our house, 
you were one of them.’ — ‘ So then,’ cried Sir William. 
‘ I find you have brought a very fine witness to prove 
your innocence ; thou stain to humanity ! to asso- 
ciate with such wretches ! — But,’ continuing his ex- 
amination, ‘ you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was 
the person who brought him this old gentleman’s 
daughter.’ — ‘ No, please your honour,’ replied the 
butler, ‘ he did not bring her, for the squire him- 
self undertook that business; but he brought the 
priest that pretended to marry them.’ — ‘It is but 
too true,’ cried Jenkinson, ‘I cannot deny it; that 
was the employment assigned to me ; and I confess 
it to my confusion.’ 

‘ Good Heaven !’ exclaimed the worthy boronet, 
‘ how every new discovery of his villany alarms me \ 
All his guilt is now too plain, and I find his present 
prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, 
and revenge: at my request, Mr. Gaoler, set this 
young ofiicer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to 
me for the consequences. I’ll make it my business 
to set the affair in a proper light to my friend the 
magistrate who has committed him. But where is 
the unfortunate young lady herself? let her appear 
to confront this wretch. I long to know by what 
arts he has seduced her. Intreat her to come in* 
Where is she ? 


/ 

THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 235 

‘ Ah ! Sir,’ said T, ‘ that question stings me to the 
heart ; I was once indeed happy in a daughter, hut 
her miseries’ — Another interrup'tion here prevented 
me ; for who should make her appearance but Miss 
Arabella Wilmot, who was the next day to have 
been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing could 
equal her surprise at seeing Sir William and his 
nephew here before her, for her arrival was quite 
accidental. It happened that she and the old gen- 
tleman, her father, were passing through the town, 
on their way to her aunt’s, who had insisted that her 
nuptials with Mr. Thornhill should be consummated 
at her house ; but, stopping for refreshment, they put 
up at an inn at the other end of the town. It was 
there, from the window, that the young lady hap- 
pened to observe one of my little boys playing in the 
street, and instantly sending a footman to bring the 
child to her, she learnt from him some account of 
our misfortunes ; but was still kept ignorant of young 
Mr. Thornhill’s being the cause. Though her father 
made several remonstrances on the impropriety of 
her going to a prison to visit us, yet they were inef- 
fectual : she desired the child to conduct her, which 
he did, and it was thus she surprised us at a junc- 
ture so unexpected.^ 

Nor can I go on without a reflection on those 
accidental meetings which, though they happen 
every day, seldom excite our surprise, but upon 
some extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous 
occurrence do we not owe every pleasure and con- 
venience of our lives ? How many seeming acci- 
dents must unite before we can be clothed or fed ! 


236 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


The peasant must be disposed to labour, the shower 
must fall, the wind fill the merchant’s sail, or num- 
bers must want the usual supply. 

We all continued silent for some moments, while 
rny charming pupil, which was the name I generally 
gave this young lady, united in her looks compassion 
and astonishment, which gave new finishing to her 
beauty. ‘ Indeed, my dear Mr. Thornhill,’ cried she 
to the squire, who she supposed was come here to 
succour, and not to oppress us, ‘ I take it a little 
unkindly that you should come here without me, or 
never inform me of the situation of a family so dear 
to us both : you know I should take as much plea- 
sure in contributing to the relief of my reverend old 
master here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. 
But I find that, like your uncle, you take a pleasure 
in doing good in secret.’ 

‘ He find pleasure in doing good !•’ cried Sir Wil- 
liam, irterrupting her; ‘no my dear, his pleasures 
are as base as he is. You see in him. Madam, as 
complete a villain as ever disgraced humanity. A 
wretch, who, after having deluded this poor man’s 
daughter, after plotting against the innocence of her 
sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the 
eldest son into fetters, because he had the courage 
to face her betrayer. And give me leave. Madam, 
now to congratulate you upon an escape from the 
embraces of such a monster.’ 

‘ O goodness!’ cried the lovely girl, ‘ how have I 
been deceived ! Mr. Thornhill informed me, for cer- 
tain, that this gentleman’s eldest son, Capt. Prim- 
rose, was gone off to America with his new married 
lady.’ 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


237 


My sweetest Miss,’ cried my wife, ‘ he has told 
you nothing but falsehoods. My son George never 
left the kingdom, nor ever was married. Though 
you have forsaken him, he has always loved you too 
well to think of any body else ; and I have heard 
him say he would die a bachelor for your sake.’ She 
then proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of 
her son’s passion ; she set his duel with Mr. Thorn- 
hill in a proper light ; from thence she made a ra- 
pid digression to the squire’s debaucheries, his pre- 
tended marriages, and ended with a most insulting 
picture of his cowardice. 

‘ Good Heavens !’ cried Miss Wilmbt, ‘ how very 
near have I been to the brink of ruin ! but how 
great is my pleasure to have escaped it ! Ten 
• thousand falsehoods has this gentleman told me ! 
He had at last art enough to persuade me, that my 
promise to the only man I esteemed was no longer 
binding, since he had- been unfaithful. By his 
falsehoods, I was taught to detest one equally brave 
and generous! 

But by this time, my son was freed from the in- 
cumbrances of justice, as the person supposed to 
be wounded was detected to be an imposter. Mr. 
Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet-de- 
chambre, had dressed up his hair, and furnished 
him with whatever was necessary to make a gen- 
teel appearance. He now, therefore, entered, 
handsomely dressed in his regimentals, and with- 
out vanity (for I am above it) he appeared as 
handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. 
M he entered, he made Miss Wihnot a modest 


238 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


and distant bow, ,for he was not yet acquainred 
with the change which the eloquence of his mother 
had wrought in his favour. But no decorums 
could restrain the impatience of his blushing mis- 
tress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all 
contributed to discover the real sensations of her 
heart, for having forgotten her former promise, 
and having suffered herself to be deluded by an f 
imposter. My son appeared amazed at her con- 
descension, and could scarce believe it real. — I 
‘Sure, Madam,’ cried he, ‘this is but delusion! I !' 
can never have merited this 1 To be blest thus is i 
to be too happy.’ — ‘ No, Sir,’ replied she, ‘ I have 
been deceived, basely deceived, else nothing could 
have ever made me unjust to my promise. You ^ 
know my friendship, you have long known it, but i 
forget what I have done, and as you once had my 
warmest vows of constancy, you shall now have 
them repeated ; and be assured, that if your Ara- 
bella cannot be your’s, she shall never be ano- 
ther’s.’ — ‘ And no other’s you shall be,’ cried Sir 
William, ‘ if I have any influence with your father.’ 

This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who 
immediately flew to the inn where the old gentle- 
man was, to inform him of every circumstance 
that had happened. But in the mean time the 
squire, perceiving that he was on every side un- 
done, now finding that no hopes were left from flat- 
tery or dissimulation, concluded that his wisest 
way would be to turn and face his pursuers. Thus 
laying aside all shame, he appeared the open and 
hardy villain. ‘ I find then,’ cried he, ‘ that I am 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD." 239 

to expect no justice here ; but I am resolved it shall 
be done me. You shall know, Sir,’ turning to 
Sir William, ‘ I am no longer a poor dependant 
upon your favours ; I scorn them. Nothing can 
keep Miss Wilmot’s fortune from me, which, 
thanks to her father’s assiduity, is pretty large. The 
articles, and a bond for her fortune, are signed, 
and safe in my possession. It was her fortune, 
not Jlier person, that induced me to wish for this 
match ; and possessed of the one, let who will take 
the other.’ 

This was an alarming blow; Sir William was 
I sensible of the justness of his claims, for he had 
been instrumental in drawing up the marriasre • 
articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, per- 
ceiving that her fortune was irretrievably lost» 
turning to my son, she asked, if the loss of for- 
I tune could lessen her value to him ? ‘Though for- 
tune,’ said she, ‘ is out of my power, at least I have 
my hand to give.’ 

‘And that. Madam,’ cried her' real lover, ‘was. 
indeed, all that you ever had to give ; at least all 
that I ever thought worth the acceptance. And 
I now protest, my Arabella, by all that’s happy, 
your want of fortune this moment increases my 
; pleasure, as it serves to convince my sweet girl of 
my sincerity.* 

Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little 
pleased at the danger his daughter had just es- 
1 caped, and readily consented to a dissolution of 
tne match. But, finding that her fortune, which 
was secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not 


240 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


be given up, nothing could exceed his disappoint- 
ment. He now saw that his money must all go to 
enrich one who had no fortune of his own. He could 
bear his being a rascal, but to want an equivalent 
to his daughter’s fortune was wormwood. He sai« 
therefore, for some minutes, employed in the most 
mortifying speculations, till Sir William attempted 
to lessen his anxiety. ‘ I must confess. Sir,’ cried', 
he, ‘that your present disappointment doef not 
entirely displease me. Your immoderate passion 
for wealth is now justly punished. But though the 
young lady cannot be rich, she has still a sufficient 
competence to give content Here you see an honest 
young soldier, who is willing to take her without 
fortune ; they have long loved each other ; and, 
for the friendship I bear his father, my interest 
shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave.^ 
then, that ambition Avhich disappoints you, and 
for once admit that happiness which courts your 
acceptance.’ 

‘Sir William,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘be 
assured, 1 never yet forced her inclinations, nor 
v/ill I now. If she still continues to love this young 
gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. 
There is still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, 
and your promise will make it something more. 
Only let my old friend here, (meaning me,) give me 
a promise of settling six thousand pounds upon my 
girl, if ever he should come to his fortune, and I am 
ready this night to be the first to join them together.’ 

As it now remained with me to make the young 
couple happy, I relidily gave a promise of making 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD'. 24 1 

the settlement he required ; which to one who had 
such little expectations as I, was no great favour. 
We had now therefore the satisfaction of seeing 
them tiy into each other’s arms in a transport. 

‘ After all my misfortunes,’ cried my son George, ‘ to 
be thus rewarded ! Sure this is more than I could 
ever have presumed to hope for. To be possessed 
of all that’s good, and after such an interval of 
pain ! my warmest wishes could never rise so 
high !’ — ‘ Yes, my George,’ returned his lovely 
bride, ‘ now let the wretch take my fortune ; since 
you are happy without it, so am I. O ! what an 
exchange have T made, from the basest of men to 
the dearest, best! Let him enjoy our fortune. I 
now can be happy even in indigence.’ ‘ And I 
promise you,’ cried the squire, with a malicious 
grin, ‘ that I shall be very happy with what you 
despise.’ — ‘ Hold, hold. Sir,’ cried Jenkinson. 
* there are two words to that bargain. As for that 
lady’s fortune. Sir, you shall never touch a single 
stiver of it. Pray, your honour,’ continued he to 
Sir William, ‘can the’squire have this lady’s for- 
tune, if he be married to another?’ — ‘How can you 
make such a simple demand ?’ replied the baronet ; 
‘ undoubtedly he cannot.’ — ‘ I am sorry for that,’ 
cried Jenkinson ; ‘ for as this gentleman and I 
have been old fellow-sporters, I have a friendship 
for him. But I must declare, well as 1 love him, 
that his contract is not worth a tobacco-stopper, for 
he. is married already.’ — ‘You lie like a rascal.’ 
returned the squire, who seemed roused by this 
insult; ‘1 never was legally married to any wo- 
Y 


512 ' YiTE vicah of TrAEF.rTrr.p. > 

man.’ — ‘ Indeed, begging your honour’s pardon,* 
replied the other, ‘you were; and I hope you will ; 
show a proper return of friendship to your own 
honest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife ; and if 
the company restrain their curiosity a few minutes. : 
they shall see her.’ So saying, he went off with | 
his usual celerity, and left us all unable to form i 
any probable conjectui;e as to his design. ‘Aye, 
let him go,’ cried the squire; ‘whatever else I 
may have done, I defy him there. I am too old 
now to be frightened with squibs.’ 

‘ I am surprised,’ sifid the baronet, ‘ what the 
fellow can intend by this; some low piece of hu- 
mour, T suppose ?’ — ‘ Perhaps, Sir,’ replied I, ‘ he 
may have a more serious meaning. For when we 
reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has 
laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one, more ; 
artful than the rest, has been found able to deceive 
him. When we consider what numbers he has 
ruined, how many parents now feel with anguish 
the infamy and the contamination which he has 
brought into their families, it would not surprise 
me, if some of them — Amazement ! Do I see my 
lost daughter ? Do T hold her ? It is, it is, my 
life, my happiness ! I thought thee lost, my Olivia, 
yet still T hold thee, and still thou shalt live to 
bless me !’ The warmest transports of the fondest 
lover were not greater than mine, when I saw him 
introduce my child, and held my daughter in my 
arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. ‘^And 
art thou returned to mo, my darling,’ cried I, to 
be my comfort in age?’ — ‘That she is,’ cried Jen- 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ^ 245 

j kinson, ‘ and make mucli of her, for she is your 
own honourable child, and as honest a woman as 
any in the whole room, let the other be who she 
will. — And as for you squire, as sure as you stand 
there, this young lady is your lawful wedded wife; 
and to convince you that I speak nothing but the 
truth, here is the licence by which you were mar- 
ried together.’ So saying, he put the licence into 
the baronet’s hands, who read it, and found it per- 
fect in every respect. ‘ And now, gentlemen,’ con- 
tinued he, ‘ I find that you are surprised at all this ; 
but a very few words will explain the difiiculty. 
That there squire of renown, for whom I have a 
great friendship, but that’s between ourselves, has 
often employed me in doing odd little things for 
him. Among the rest, he commissioned me to pro- 
cure him a false licence and a false priest, in order 
to deceive this young lady. But as I was very 
much his friefid, what did I do but went and got a 
true licence and a true priest, and married them 
both as fast as the cloth could make them. Per- 
haps you’ll think it was generosity made me do all 
this. But, no ; to my shame I confess it ; my only 
design was to keep the licence, and let the squire 
know that I could prove it upon him, whenever I 
thought proper, and so make him come down 
whenever I wanted money.’ A burst of pleasure 
now seemed to fill the whole apartment ; our joy 
even reached to the common ropm, where the pri- 
eoners themselves sympathized ; 

And shook their chains 

In transport and rude harmony. 


244 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 


Happiness was expanded upon every face, and 
even Olivia’s cheeks seemed flushed with pleasure. 
To be thus restored to reputation, to friends, and 
fortune, at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the 
progress of decay, and restore former health and 
vivacity. But perhaps among all, there was not 
one who felt a sincerer pleasure than I. Still hold- 
ing the dear loved child in my arms, I asked my 
heart, if these transports were not delusion. ‘ How 
could you,’ cried I, turning to Jenkinsoh. ‘ how 
could you add to my miseries by the story. of her 
death ? But it matters not ; my pleasure at find- 
ing her again is more than a recompence for the 
pain .’ 

‘ As to your question,’ replied Jenkinson, ‘ that 
is easily answered. I thought the only probable 
means of freeing you from prison, was by submit- 
ing to the squire, and consenting to his marriage 
with the other young lady; but these you had vowed 
never to grant while your daughter was living ; 
there was therefore no other method to bring things 
to bear, but by persuading you that she was dead. 
1 prevailed on your wife to join in the deceit, and 
we have not had a fit opportunity of undeceiving 
you till now.’ 

In the whole assembly, there now appeared only 
two faces that did not glow with ^transport. Mr. 
Thornhill’s assurance had entirely forsaken him ; he 
now saw the gulph of infamy and want before him, 
and trembled to take the plunge ; he therefore fell 
on his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of pierc- 
ing misery, implored compassion. Sir William 
was going to spurn him away, but at my request 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 24j 

he raised him, and after pausing a few motnenTs. 

* Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude,’ cried he, ‘ de- 
serve no tenderness ; yet thou shalt not be entirely 
forsaken ; a bare competence shall be supplied to 
support the wants of life, but not its follies. This 
young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of 
a thira part of that fortune which once was thine, 
and fri)m her tenderness alone thou art to expect 
any extraordinary supplies for the future.’ He 
was going to express his gratitude for such kind- 
ness in a set speech ; but the baronet prevented 
him, by bidding him not aggravate his meanness, 
which vras already but too apparent. He ordered 
him at the same time to be gone, and from all his 
former domestics to choose one, and such as he 
should think proper, which was all that should be 
granted to attend him. 

As soon as he left us. Sir William very politely 
stepped up to his new niece with a smile, and 
wished her joy ; his example was followed by Miss 
Wilmot and her father ; my wife too i:issed her 
daughter with much affection, as, to use her own 
expression, she was now made an honest woman 
pf ; Sophia and Moses followed in turn, and even 
our benefactor Jenkinson desired to be admitted tq 
that honour. Our satisfaction seemed scarce ca- 
pable of increase. Sir William, whose greatest 
pleasure was in doing good, now looked round, with 
a countenance open as the sun ; and saw nothing 
but joy in the looks of all, except that of my daugh- 
ter Sophia, who, for some reasons we could not 
pomprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. ‘ I 


246 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


think now,’ cried he. with a smile, ‘tliat all ifi© 
company, except one or two, seem perfectly happy. 
Tliere only retnains an act of justice for me to do. 
You are sensible. Sir,’ continued he, turning to 
me, ‘ of the obligations we both owe to Mr. Jcnkin- 
son ; and it is but just we should both reward 
him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am sure, make 
him very happy, and he shall have from me five 
hundred pounds as her fortune ; and upon this, I 
am sure they can live very comfortably together. 
Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of 
my making? Will you have him.’ My poor girl 
seemed almost sinking into her mother’s arms at 
the hideous proposal. ‘ Have him Sir !’ cried she 
faintly: ‘no Sir, never.’ — ‘What!’ cried he again, 
‘ not Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, a handsonio 
young fellow, with five hundred pounds and good 
expectations I’ — ‘I beg. Sir,’ returned she, scarce 
able to speak, ‘that you’ll desist, and not make 
me so very wretched.’ — ‘ Was ever such obstinacy 
known ?’ cried he again, ‘ to refuse the man whom the 
family has such infinate obligations to, who has pre- 
served your sister, and who has five hundred pounds ? 
What, not have him!’ — ‘No, Sir, never,’ replied she, 
angrily ; ‘ I’d sooner die first!’ — ‘ If that be the case 
then,’ cried he, ‘if you will not have him — I think I 
must have you myself.’ And so saying, he caught 
her to his breast with ardour. ‘ My loveliest, my 
most sensible of girls,’ cried he, ‘how could you 
ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, or 
that Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to ad- 
mire a mistress that loved him for himself alone ? I 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFTEEP. 247 

have for some years sought for a woman, wlio, a 
stranger to my fortune, could think that I had merit 
as a man. After having tried in vain, even among 
the pert and the ugly, how great at last must be my 
rapture, to have made a conquest over such sense 
and such heavenly beauty !’ Then turning to Jenkin- 
son, ‘ As I cannot, Sir, part with this young lady my- 
s If, for she has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, 
all the recompence I can make is, to give you her 
fortune, and you may call upon my steward to-mor- 
row for five hundred pounds. Thus w6 had all our 
compliments to repeat, and Lady Thornhill under- 
went the same round of ceremony that her sister had 
done before. In the mean-time. Sir, William’s gen- 
tleman appeared, to tell us that the equipages were 
ready to carry us to the inn, where every thing was 
prepared for our reception. My wife and I led the 
van, and left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The 
generous baronet ordered forty pounds to be dis- 
tributed among the prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot. in- 
duced by his example, gave half that sum. We 
were received below by the shouts of the villagers, 
and I saw and shook by the hand two or three of my 
honest parishioners, who were among the number. 
They attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous 
entertainment was provided, and coarser provisions 
distributed in great quantities artiong the popu- 
lace. 

After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the 
alternation of pleasure and pain which they had sus- 
tained during the day, I asked permission to with- 
draw ; and leaving the company in the midst of their 


fe48 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

^irth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured ou^ 
my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy as well as^ 
porrow, and then slept undisturbed till morning. 



CHAP. XXXII. 

THE CONCLUSION. 

The next morning as soon as I awaked, I found 
my eldest son sitting at my bed-side, who came to 
increase my joy with another turn of fortune in my 
favour, Fjrst having released me from the settle- 
ment that I had made the day before in his favour, 
he let me know that my merchant who had failed in 
town was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given 
up ejects to a much greater amount than what 
was due to his creditors. My boy’s generosity 
pleased me almost as much as this unlooked-for 
good fortune. But I had some doubts, whether I 
pught in justice to accept his offer. While I was 
pondering upon this. Sir William entered the room, 
to whom T communicated my doubts. His opinion 
was, that as my son was already possessed of a very 
affluent fortune by his marriage, ^ might accept his 
offer without hesitation. His business, however, 
was to inform mP} that as he had the night before 
sent for the licences, and expected them every hour, 
he hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in 
making all the company happy that morning. A 
footman entered, while we were speaking, to tell ua 
^hat the messenger was returned ; and as I was by 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIECD. 249 

this time ready, I went down, where I found the 
whole company as merry as affluence and iimocenco 
could make them. However, as they were now pre- 
daring for a very solemn ceremony, their laughter 
entirely displeased me. I told them of the grave, 
becoming, and sublime deportment, they should 
assume upon this mystical occasion, and read them 
two homilies and a thesis of my own composing, in 
order to prepare them. Yet they still seemed per- 
fectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we 
were going along to church, to which I led the way, 
all gravity had quite forsaken them, and T was often 
tempted to turn back in indignation* In church a 
new dilemma arose, which promised no easy solu- 
tion. This was, which couple should be married 
first ; my son’s bride warmly insisted that Lady 
Thornhill (that was to be) should take the lead ; but 
this the other refused with equal ardour, protesting 
she would not be guilty of such rudeness for the 
world. The argument was supported for some time 
between both with equal obstinacy and good breed- 
ing. But as I stood all this time with my book 
ready, 1 was at last quite tired of the contest, and 
shutting it, ‘ 1 perceive,’ cried I, ‘that none of you 
have a mind to be married, and 1 think we had as 
good go back again ; for I suppose there will be no 
business done here to-day.’ This at once reduced 
them to reason. The baronet and his lady were 
first married, and then my son and his lovely 
partner. 

I had previously that morning given orders that 
a coach should be sent for my honest neighbour 


250 


THE 4VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


Flamborough and his family ; by which means, jjpon 
our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of hnd- 
ing the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted before us. 
JMr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and my 
son Moses led up the other ; and I liave since found, 
that he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my 
consent and bounty he shall have whenever he 
thinks proper to demand them. We were no sooner 
returned to the inn, but numbers of my parishion- 
ers ; hearing of my success, came to congratulate 
me ; but among the rest were those who rose to 
rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with such 
sharpness. I told the story to Sir William, my 
son-in-law, who went out, and reproved them with 
great severity ; but finding them quite disheartened 
by this harsh reproot, iie gave them half-a-guinea 
a-piece to drink his health, and raise their dejected 
sjiirits. 

Soon after this, we were called to a very genteel 
entertainment, which was dressed by Mr. Thorn- 
hill’s cook. And it may not be improper to observe, 
with respect to that gentleman, that he now resides 
in quality of companion at a relation’s house, being 
very well liked, and seldom sitting at the side- 
lable, except when there is no room at the other ; 
for they make no stranger of him. His time is 
jiretty much taken up in keeping his relation, who 
is a little melancholy, in spirits, and in learning to 
blow the French-horn. My eldest daughter, how- 
ever, still remembers him with regret ; and she has 
et en told me, though I make a great secret of it, 


"tTTE X'ICAR of WAKEFlEtt).' 251 * 

that when he reforms, she may be brought l<> 
relent. Biit to return, for 1 am not apt to digress 
thus ; when we were to sit down to dinner, our 
ceremonies were going to be renewed. The ques- 
tion was, whether my eldest daughter, as being a 
matron should not sit above the two young brides ; 
but the debate was cut short by my son George, 
who proposed that the company should sit indiscri- 
minately, every gentleman by his lady. This was 
received with great approbation by all, excepting 
my wife, who, I could perceive, was not perfectly 
satisfied, as she expected to have had the pleasure 
of sitting at the head of the table, and carving the 
meat for all the company. But notwithstanding 
this, it is impossible to describe our good-humour. 
I can’t say w^hether we hart more wit amongst us 
now than usual ; but 1 am certain, we had more 
laughing, which answered the end as well. One 
jest I particularly remember ; old Mr. Wilmot, 
drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another 
way, my son replied, ‘ Madam, I thank you.’ 
Upon which the old gentleman, winking tjpon the 
rest of the company, observed that he was think- 
ing of his mistress. At which jest I thought the 
two Miss Flamboroughs would have died with 
laughing. As soon as dinner w’as over, according 
to my old custom, T requested that the table might 
be taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing all 
my family assembled once more by a cheerful fire- 
side. My two little ones sat upon each knee, tho 
rest of the company by their partners. I had no- 


/ 

2b2 rHE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD^ 

) 

thing now on this side of the grave to wish 
jny cares were over, my pleasure was unspeakable^ 
It now only remained, that my latitude in goodi 
fortune should exceed my former submission in 
adversity. 

s(JL ■ 

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THE EfifH. 


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